A Kindred Christmas
by WolfButler
Summary: Before the fairies, before the adventures, before the Blue Diamond, before The Academy, before... Well. Before a lot of things. There was just a boy, destined for something much greater than a part in a nativity. But for now, there was only his mother, his uncle and his grandfather. Set before 'Just Reckoning', focusing on the people who brought Butler up - and what might've been.
1. Prologue

_**I'm baaack!**_

 _ **Well… temporarily and on a sort of 'for one night only' basis. But still, here I am! Not dead, not moved to a land with no internet, still not given up on writing that 'Butler-growing-up' biography… (it will happen. Eventually.** **Eventually** **. I swear…)**_

 _ **Before anyone gets their hopes up, this is not my usual action-packed adventure and much more of a side-piece to the aforementioned 'Butler-growing-up' stories.**_

 **Brace for wordy A/N.**

 **So, it's been a while *cough* _nearlytwoyearswhatohshitsorryaboutthat_ *cough*, but here is a little something I've been working on with motivation from Steinbock – who approved a very rough, much shorter draft about a year ago and, as always, spoke sense to me about posting it for you all to read – and from ghost235 – who gave me the push I needed to return to it and get it finished in time for Christmas. So you have those two to thank.**

 **I realise it's been a long time and although I'm looking forward to seeing if there's any of my 'old crew' and readers still hanging about on here, if you're a new face who is suddenly come across this lunatic writing fics almost solely about Butler and only just tangibly related to the Artemis Fowl universe enough to post in this fandom, then please – give us a wave!**

 **OK, so: quick summary before any of you waste your time reading a fic you won't be interested in. This one focuses a bit more on Butler's childhood influences. It's pre-'Just Reckoning', so those of you who have read that will perhaps catch some references to it in here, but don't worry if you haven't (or haven't *yet*, as is my hope) read that one, it's definitely not essential to do so before you start on this. Although if you later move on to JR, please let me know it was this fic that lead you there :)**

 **OK, enough. On with the fic. I apologise in advance for me being shite at writing emotional stuff, but I have tried hard with this one…**

 **So if you're going to read on, I hope you enjoy it, find it worth your time and if you do, please do let me know :)**

* * *

 **DISCLAIMER: If it wasn't for Eoin Colfer's Artemis Fowl series, none of this would have ever existed. Any recognisable characters, details and big, castle-like manors all belong to him. Everyone/thing else is my fault…**

 **WARNINGS: The usual 'YOU ARE ENTERING A WOLFY-WRITTEN FIC' warnings apply. Here there be swearing, violence, stumbling attempts at emotions… No warnings this time for abuse or other sensitive subjects should apply in this fic, but if anyone finds themselves upset or offended by anything it contains, please let me know and I'll be sure to add a warning for it on here.**

* * *

 **A KINDRED CHRISTMAS**

 ** _Definition  
'Kindred': similarly, in like or related manner  
from 'Kin', meaning 'family' and 'allied'_**

* * *

 ** _PROLOGUE_**

It was December. Domovoi Butler had recently turned seven and was attending a local primary school. Artemis Fowl had entered the senior-school side of St. Bartleby's School for Young Gentlemen. And Theresa Brady, Domovoi's mother, had started dating.

All of these things affected The Major in varying degrees he would not admit.

His nephew being submitted to a civilian education bothered him. For sure, the boy had to learn the basics somewhere, but in the meantime he wasn't making the best of his time lolling around with a bunch of idiotic layabouts spending their lives locked in a comfortable classroom counting cubes and writing cursively – and that was just the teachers.

Artemis had begun boarding at St. Bartleby's and The Major was not permitted to stay with him, which of course bothered him most of all – one could not very well protect one's charge if said boy was several miles away in an insecure building. And Eugene Fowl could argue with them all he liked, his Butlers would never concede that the centuries-old institute was anywhere _near_ secure enough to house the Fowl heir without their close protection.

And as for Theresa dating, well, of course he was… happy for her. Obviously…

* * *

"Just for the one night. I know you're not busy – Dom told me Artemis is still at school. Mrs O'Neil is sick and I'm not lumping Dom on her whilst he's on his nativity buzz – he'll drive her insane. Please?"

Mrs O'Neil was Theresa and Dom's elderly neighbour. Owner of three cats and grandmother of seven, she was quite capable of handling a quiet, polite young boy like Dom under usual circumstances, however…

" _Nativity_ buzz?"

"Yeah – he's got his school play. I've told you about this. _He's_ told you about this! I knew you weren't listening!"

"I always listen," he snorted. "I just only retain relevant information."

"Ouch. Well don't tell Dom that. He's very proud of his part in it."

"I see. Is it a main part?"

"Well," she said, and he could almost hear her wrinkling her nose. "He hasn't actually told me yet. I thought you didn't care?"

"I never said that," Myles clarified, frowning.

"Anyway, it wasn't why I rang; I really need you to watch him for me. Please? I can drop him off."

Myles sighed. It wasn't as though he had anything better to do. It would even be a good boredom buster to have his young protégé around the place for a few hours.

"Fine," he relented.

"You're a star, My..."

"Ah-ah," he said, and she could almost hear him scowl.

"You're a star, _Major_ ," she corrected.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm the best, I know."

"Well, I don't know about the _best_ , but you're certainly the one and only," she said, and hung up with a laugh before he could reply.

* * *

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin**

"Thanks for this, Myles," she said as he met them at the grand front doors to the manor. The hall was empty, The Fowls in the reading room for the evening, so this time he didn't bother to correct her on the use of his first name.

"It's no trouble," he said, with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

"Still. Thank-you," she smiled genuinely and turned to her son. "Right you – bed by seven, alright?"

"Seven?" the seven-year-old groaned.

" _Seven_ , understood? You've got a busy week coming up – I don't want you being too tired."

"Yes, Ma," little Domovoi sighed, squeezing her tightly as she hugged him goodbye.

"You should be getting going," Myles said, checking his watch. "You don't want to be late."

She _'pssht'_ at him and flicked her hair out of her face. "It's always OK to be fashionably late."

He grunted noncommittally; always a stickler for time.

"OK. How do I look?" she asked. "And don't mention the woolly jumper, cheeky – you know I'm going home to get that dress you picked out."

"Pretty, Ma," her boy said honestly. He was a little nervous about his mother going out on a 'date', but he wanted her to be happy and if this made her happy, then he guessed he could be ok with it.

Myles couldn't disagree. Theresa rarely 'dolled up' as she put it, but this date must be something special, for she looked very…. very nice. Well, make-up and hair-wise. He could only guess Domovoi was probably about as good as he was when it came to choosing women's outfits, so he suspected she had had some input at least into the one he had 'chosen' for her.

"Thank-you, sweetheart," she smiled again, then added, looking at his uncle. "I'd ask you, but since I don't have a spoiler or an engine block, I don't much see the point."

"I _don't much_ like the look of spoilers anyway," he muttered, not that she was listening. "Most are far more decorative than functional and…"

But he was being ignored and she stroked her son's hair for one more moment before she began to descend the steps.

"Be good," she threw over her shoulder with a warning raise of her eyebrows. "Or I'll hear about it."

"Promise," the youngster said, and crossed his heart with the little finger on his right hand.

"He better be," the man growled.

"Who said I was talking to him?" she said with a grin. "Look after eachother, my boys."

And with that she went, somewhat nervously, to meet her date.

Myles frowned. He didn't like her going off alone, but he doubted his company would be very welcome.

"Uncle can I show you this thing they were teaching us at Saturday class? I don't think it's right but when I told them they said it was and I just wasn't doing it right…"

His uncle grunted, finally turning away and closing the door before his nephew began pulling at his arm or something equally as excitable and chastisable.

"What have I told you about correcting your instructors, Junior?" he said sternly.

"Erm…" the boy thought for a moment. "Not to tell them they're spouting bullshit in front of the class because it makes me look like a smartarse."

The Major raised an eyebrow. Had he actually said that? He probably had. He sometimes forgot that little Domovoi was 1) only seven years of age and 2) very good at remembering things.

"Hmph. Well don't tell your mother I said that."

"I won't. But I did tell my instructor they were teaching it wrong…"

"Show me," Myles frowned, concerned that a qualified martial arts instructor would be educating a whole class of impressionable youngsters incorrectly.

Dom slung his bag to the floor and took up a stance.

"He said to do _this_ , but I think it'd be better to do _this_ ," he demonstrated.

"Ah," he snorted, seeing the problem instantly. "That's because they're teaching you the baby way to do it. Then as you get older, they'll teach you to build on that and develop the technique into a proper one."

"Oh," said Dom, confusion painting itself across his face. "But… why not just teach us the proper way in the first place, so we don't have to learn it twice?"

Myles smiled at him with a slight shake of his head.

"Because, my boy," he said with just a hint of fondness in his tones. "Not everyone finds fighting as easy as you."

Domovoi beamed. That was close enough to a compliment that he was going to take it.

"Come on then," the Butler said, checking the lock on the door and setting off across the grand hall. "Let's go do some _proper_ training, shall we?"

"Yeah!" the boy exclaimed happily, snatching up his bag and racing to catch up with his uncle's long strides.

* * *

 **OK... anybody want to read more? If not let me know and I'll bow out here before I waste everyone's time.**

 **Really, if you even got this far down the page, thank-you so much for reading. I act all blasé and tough, but it really does make me smile to myself when I know people are out there reading my work. Enjoying it? Even better :)**

 **Cheers,**

 **Wolfy  
ooo  
O**


	2. Chapter 1 - Stood

**Thanks to: shadow914, ghost235 and Steinbock for the reviews. You three are carrying the team right now haha**

 **And to those of you who followed and favourited this fic on the merit of only its prologue. Thank-you, I am truly honoured in your faith in me making this worth your while.**

 **And I'll let the rest of you off given that that was only a short prologue. You know my fics start slow and build up, so l** **et's get this show on the road, shall we?**

 **WARNINGS: Strong language likely from the start, but if you made it this far you already know that.**

 **DISCLAIMER: Colfer's if you recognise it from the books. Mine if you recognise it from my fics.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

 **Stood**

 _ **Definition: to maintain upright position, to tolerate, to reliably remain unchanged, to be a candidate for something  
In phrase: 'stood up' - to fail to appear at a planned rendezvous  
Homonym: 'stud' - a genetically superior male**_

* * *

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin**

The time passed quickly and after he had entertained Domovoi with a bout of training – correcting all the 'bullshit' he had been taught since he had last seen him – fed the boy, made him shower and sent him to bed, Myles sat down to pass the time cleaning his guns. It was a task he had more time for whilst Artemis was away at boarding school, but tomorrow heralded his return for the Christmas holidays; a fact the bodyguard was grateful of. He never slept too easily when the boy was this far from his side, no matter how many assurances of the integrity of the school's security set-up he received. He had barely dismantled one of his Sig Sauers – a lesser used pistol in his armoury, if he was honest – when the phone in the hallway rang. He listened for a moment, but when he heard no move to answer it, got to his feet with a disgruntled mutter about _'doing the job you're paid for'_ and headed into the hall.

He checked his watch as he answered it. It was half an hour past Dom's bedtime. He supposed it could be Theresa checking in on him.

"Good Evening, Fowl Manor," he said curtly.

"God, I forgot you always sound like you have a stick up your arse when you're on duty."

His suspicions were correct, then.

"He's fine. Exercised, fed, bathed and in bed. You can enjoy your night."

"Exercised?" she said, before he could hang up the phone. "My son is not a bloody dog, Myl…"

"Ah-ah," he warned. " _Not_ over the phone. Especially not on this line. How many times?"

Theresa muttered something that sounded rather a lot like _'paranoid'_.

"Why are you calling?" he asked bluntly. He didn't have time for this. Well, that wasn't technically true; Artemis wouldn't be back until well after mid-morning tomorrow, most likely. He had all the time in the world until then. It was rather that he didn't want to waste it. As soon as the boy was home, it'd be back to being at his beck and call every hour of the day. A small price to pay for his safety, perhaps, but one -that made 'free time' expensive all the same.

"My date stood me up," Theresa told him, her breath crackling into the receiver. "But I got a taxi here so I could drink. And so now I'm basically stranded."

"You need money for a taxi fare? No problem. Put it on the tab of one of my aliases if you want. Give me a sec…"

"I've got money – I'm not asking for money, Major," she retorted hotly - as she always did when he implied that she might have funding issues. "I'm just loathed to use it on a bloody taxi when I was planning on spending it on a good night out."

"Then what are you asking for?" he asked.

 _Jesus, are you being slow or just bloody obstinate?_ she thought.

"I'm asking you if you'd…" she broke off with a sigh and there was a few seconds of muffled restaurant chatter before she spoke again. He was her friend, but he was also a Butler. Which came first was almost always a photo-finish. She chose her words carefully. "I made an effort. And now… Now I'm sat at a reserved table in a swanky restaurant embarrassed as hell. I've just had to buy another drink to stop them kicking me out and… and I could do with some company."

He was silent for so long she thought he'd hung up.

"Myles?" she said quietly, forgetting his rules. "Just forget it. I shouldn't have ask…"

"Wait…" he said, making one of his irritated noises in the back of his throat as was his habit whenever she asked him something he deemed difficult. "You want me to… trek out to this restaurant and pretend to be your _date?_ "

"Date, brother, husband – I could care less. Just… will you? For me?"

And there it was. She was asking him to choose again. He hated that. She _knew_ he hated that. She wouldn't have asked, but…

"I don't know, Theresa. It seems pretty…"

"You're right," she cut in, saving him further explanation. It was a no; she got that. "I'm sorry. Forget I rang. I'll deal with it, it's fine…"

"I could order a taxi for you if you want?" he offered – a paltry recompense, he knew, but at least it was something. "Save you another phonecall."

"Sure," she said, falsely bright – at least that saved her using the last of the loose change in her purse. "What name are you using?"

"Give me a sec…" he repeated, crushing the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pulled the drawer of the phone table open, flicking through the papers for a taxi company he had a tab with, on one of his aliases that wouldn't draw attention.

"Stop faffing about, boy, and go yourself."

His father's voice rarely startled him, but this time Myles physically flinched so hard the phone almost slipped from his shoulder. The man had snuck up on him some half a minute or more ago, so engrossed in the phonecall as he was. He covered the movement with a cough. He didn't like the effect Theresa had on him sometimes.

"Mylo, I've got like two pence left on this call – what name are you using or am I walking home in these god-awful heels because I'm too bloody-minded to pay for a warm car?"

He caught himself chewing on his bottom lip. He hadn't done that since he was a teen. His father snapped a hand forward, clipping him lightly on the ear as he swiped the phone. Purposefully, of course. Alexandr Butler rarely did _anything_ by accident.

"Theresa?"

"Pa?" she said, one of the very few people who would be able to tell their gravelled tones apart over the phoneline. It was always the slightly stronger hint of Russian on the second 'e' of her name that she caught him on when he said it.

"He'll be there. Wait for him at the table," he said into the handset, then hung up.

"What - ?" Myles exclaimed. "Pa – have you lost your mind?!"

"Have you?" the older man flipped back at him. "Be quiet, man. Do you want the whole manor to hear you?"

"Fine," he hissed instead, with a furtive glance at the upper landing. It would not be unlike Domovoi to be eavesdropping, after all.

Just the other day he had found the boy hiding in the laundry room of all places. He had looked _highly_ suspicious but The Major had eventually put it down to the most likely explanation that the little tyke had been using the laundry-chute as a method of getting downstairs quicker again. Something he was forbidden to do, as it happened. _'Except in case of severe emergency',_ he had managed to get in as a safety clause. Little Dom was generally quite good at keeping to his rules, but his uncle had wanted to make sure he knew it was still a perfectly acceptable escape route should the need arise, he just wasn't allowed to use it as a form of entertainment or a means of eavesdropping throughout the manor. Although he had to admit, he was fairly proud of the boy for considering it all by himself. Resourceful little shit that he was.

"So what; you want me to go pick her up?" he asked.

"Obviously," the elder Butler said, as though it were. "I noticed the Bentley is still out front; wasn't that your plan all along?"

"Is it?" Myles feigned ignorance – a stupid move, really.

" _It is_ ," his father mimicked his tone, mockingly. "Don't pretend you don't know it."

"Fine," he admitted with a huff of annoyance. "I left it out in case…"

"In case this date of hers turned out to be a mass-murdering psychopath and you had to speed to the rescue?" Alexandr mused aloud.

"Not exactly," Myles muttered.

"But essentially," the giant raised an eyebrow, knowingly. "I know you too well, son. You wouldn't leave that car out when it's due to frost unless you were concerned."

The younger Butler muttered some half-hearted excuse about ' _being careful'_ and ' _you can never be too prepared'_ , under his breath.

"Ah yes – and you're speaking to the one who taught you that, remember?"

"Then stop mocking me," his son objected.

"I'm not mocking you, son," Xandr said, softening slightly. "I know how much she means to you – to _us_."

Myles's stare could have bored holes into the marble floor.

The moment lasted a few seconds and Alexandr placed his hand on his son's shoulder lightly.

"Although I reserve the right to exercise full piss-taking privileges about you getting all uptight about this new boyfriend of hers. Anyone would think you were _jealous_ …"

"I'm not _jealous_ ," Myles snorted, shucking the hand away. "And he's not her boyfriend. He didn't even turn up to her date – the prick."

 _'Prick' indeed when he doesn't even know the man,_ Alexandr thought with amusement. _Point proven, the overprotective_ _ **durak**_ _…_

He didn't say anything of the matter aloud, but a lifetime of living and working together meant that his son all-but read his thoughts on his face.

"And _no_ , I haven't met him," he said, as though his father had indeed spoken. "I haven't even done a background check because she wouldn't give me a name…"

"After last time…" Xandr almost rolled his eyes.

"That one was also an arsehole," Myles said brusquely. "I was right then, too."

Alexandr couldn't help but smile, but it was tinged with a sadness. As amusing as his youngest son's behaviour was, it wasn't helping anybody – least of all Theresa and himself.

"Myles," he said, quietly. "You need to decide whether you're going to be _a_ brother _to_ her or be _your_ brother _for_ her."

 _Be Beckett?_ Myles thought. _He's being ridiculous_.

Identicality genetically aside, they were completely different people. He could never – _would_ never – take his brother's place. To suggest it was irrational at best. Besides, that wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't what Theresa _needed_ , either.

Myles set his jaw and Alexandr saw the conversation was going no further down that road tonight.

"Right," the younger Butler said shortly. "I'll be back in an hour then."

"No," Xandr told him, deciding to give him the push he needed to make a decision. Either way, it had to be done and he would not be unhappy with the outcome whatever it was, so long as they were both content with it. "You'll go have the meal she was expecting with her and then you will take her home or bring her here as she wishes."

"Pa, for fuck's sake," he protested – and Xandr knew it had nothing to do with staying out later, although he already knew the excuse that was about to come. "Artemis is back…"

"Tomorrow," his father cut him off, paying no heed to the insolent tone he had spoken in. "So have tonight. I can take Theresa and Dom both back to their flat in the morning if needed, while you collect Artemis. Or they can stay until the evening, I doubt Mr Fowl will mind."

Myles ground his teeth. He could do without this… _complication_ to his life. Theresa knew the deal on their friendship – and that was what it was, _damn_ his father for suggesting it could ever be anything different – he was her _friend_ , but he was never going to be able to always be there for her whenever she needed him. Situations like this; suggesting that he _could_ be, were only going to make things harder when he genuinely couldn't. Cursing her, his father and the goddamn fool who had stood her up, he tried fruitlessly to think of a reasonable excuse to stay here at the manor, in a nice, quiet room with his guns and his polish, and not head out on this doubtlessly misfortuned venture…

"She _needs_ you," Xandr said simply. "She wouldn't have called otherwise. You know how independent she is. Now _go_. I'll watch the manor. _And_ the boy, before you use him as an excuse."

Myles scowled. He did not enjoy being ordered about. Even if it was by his own father; the one man he was not employed by who _could_ order him about.

"The address, then?" he said, sullenly. "Or do you expect me to ring back and ask, too?"

"Don't make me laugh," Alexandr chuckled. He knew his son would have a lock on Theresa's exact location the moment he got wind of her going anywhere alone. And he was right, of course. "Go get her, boy."

"Fine." the younger man muttered again, pulling an overcoat from the nearby cloakroom and shucking it over his usual suit jacket. Daily workwear in their line of business was handily inkeeping with most formal events, including _absolutely-non-_ dates in marginally expensive restaurants. "But do you have to make it sound so…"

"What?" he queried, raised an eyebrow, amused.

"I'm not ' _getting'_ her… I'm not going on a… It's not a _date_!"

"Whoever said it was?" his father said with a smirk on his face, holding the door open for him to step into the cold night. " ** _Dobroy nochi,_** **_syn_**."

 _Goodnight indeed,_ his son thought irritably, as he stormed over to the car.

* * *

 **OK, so the wheels are rolling and for those of you staying aboard the train,** **here is a** **skippable OC Guide for those who haven't read JR:**

 **Theresa Brady – Domovoi's mother. She's a single-mum, they live in a block of flats in Dublin, not too far from Fowl Manor, but far enough to be a drive away. Or a rather long walk. She's fiercely independent and even-more-so protective of Dom. She was with his father, Beckett, for several years before Dom's birth, but was left broken by his disappearance before he even knew she was pregnant. She still hasn't quite given up hope on finding out what happened to him one day, but eight years on is beginning to face the reality that his return is unlikely and that she needs to move on. Easier said than done, especially when she spends a great deal of time in close proximity to his identical twin brother…**

 **Myles 'The Major' Butler – Domovoi's uncle. He is bodyguard to Artemis Fowl (Senior) and is one of about 3 characters that appear in most of my fics that are even so much as mentioned by Colfer in his published work. Likes to put himself across as serious and cold, but as with all Butlers he has a softer side. He happens to be the identical twin brother of Beckett Butler (Domovoi's missing father) and spends a lot of his time trying to convince Theresa that a) she should accept help from them, b) her son could be the next shining star in Madam Ko's Bodyguarding Academy and c) he stepping into his brother's shoes would be a terrible idea. He is arguably more successful on some of those points than others…**

 **Alexandr Butler – Domovoi's grandfather and current 'Butler' of the manor. Generally, the title skips a generation, hence his son Myles taking 'The Major' as a working name and his grandson Domovoi eventually inheriting 'Butler'. He's a wise old soldier with a little more emotional nous than his younger counterparts. He works hard to keep everyone on an even keel, providing a little nudge here and there and expertly balancing gruffness with support as well as he does his work and family life. Basically an all round awesome guy. Comes out with some cracking one-liners too.**

* * *

 ** _Question of the Chapter:_ What does everyone actually thing of Myles? Asking for a friend… Just kidding, he couldn't give a shit if you all hate him…**

 **I'll do a QotC for every one if I remember :)**

 **Wolfy  
ooo  
O**


	3. Chapter 2 - Reservations

**Thanks to: ghost235, kath and Steinbock for the reviews.**

 **Great to hear from you :)**

 **Much longer chapter coming up - enjoy!**

 **If anyone would like a song to go with this one, 'Lonely Together' by Avicii (ft. Rita Ora) is a good one. It also pretty perfectly fits a one-shot I have written, but I'll see the reaction to this fic before I mention that again haha**

 **WARNINGS: Language, awkwardness, gruff!fluff**

 **DISCLAIMER: Jus' sayin', Colfer only mentioned the Major once and look at the amount I've written about him... Still not mine though, I guess *sigh***

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWO**

 **Reservations**

 _ **Definitions: 1) to stake a claim to something**_

 _ **2) to have uncertainties or doubts**_

 _ **3) a protected area**_

* * *

 **An Undisclosed Restaurant, Dublin**

And that was how Myles Butler ended up walking into that restaurant on that December evening some twenty minutes later – not that the Bentley's cold engine would thank him for that shortened journey time.

"Excuse me, sir, but do you have a reservation?" the waitress on the welcome desk asked him.

"Of sorts," he rumbled.

"Your name then, if you please."

Myles said nothing, scanning the crowd of seated people.

"We _are_ fully booked," the hostess said, looking up at him somewhat nervously. "So if you don't have a reservation..."

Oh he had _many_ a reservation - especially regarding this meet-up. Just not of the kind the restaurant staff were asking him to state.

"Sir, I'm afraid…"

She looked 'afraid' too. Myles tried to reign himself in a bit. He was well aware of his menacing demeanour on a good day; being as irritated and frustrated as he was, wasn't likely to improve his aura. Theresa would _definitely_ have something to say about that when she saw him. She always pulled him up on looking like he was 'about to chew someone up and spit out their insides'.

"He's with me. Don't worry – he doesn't bite; he's just cranky..."

Theresa had seen him coming. But then, at nearly seven feet tall, it was hard not to. Or at least when he wasn't actively in 'stealth-mode'.

The staff member seemed more relieved than he did, but nonetheless she was a welcome sight in a joint he had not scoped out beforehand. It was a decent enough place, but not quite posh enough for him to have passed reccy-ing it for the possible future use of the Fowls. He inclined his head to her in acknowledgement.

"… because he's _late_ ," Theresa accused him lightly, all for show of course. For more than a few minutes there, she wasn't sure he had been coming at all.

"Fashionably, I like to think," he said, smiling despite himself when she rolled her eyes and elbowed him in the ribs for stealing her line, hooking her arm around his and leading the way.

They crossed the room to a small table. Then again, for the giant, _everything_ was comparatively miniature. Myles weaved his head between the low-hanging light-fittings and more than one table of patrons hushed their conversations to snatch glances at him and shoot furtive whispers to their fellow diners. He scowled. At least when he was on duty it was fully acceptable to be almost three feet broad at the shoulders.

"Let's just go," he muttered. "I'll take you somewhere else if you like. A chip shop, or whatever."

"Not bloody likely, cheapskate. I didn't dress up like this to get a bloody chippy-tea …"

"We're drawing attention to ourselves."

"And by that you mean _you're_ drawing attention to us," Theresa said, raising an eyebrow. "That's what you get for being stupidly enormous."

"Well apologies for my genetics," he grumbled sarcastically, sitting down gingerly on the concerningly-lightweight chair. "You can take it up later with my father, if you like. It's his bloody fault I'm here in the first place."

 _In more ways than one,_ Theresa shook her head silently, smiling.

"What?" he growled, tetchily. "What now? If this damn chair collapses under me you're going to die laughing and you left me Dom in your will, is that it?"

"No," she said – and she did laugh, although not quite as heartily as she would if his prediction came true. "Although yes, he's all yours."

"I should think so, too," he sniffed, secretly pleased all the same. Although he would much prefer this part-time raising arrangement they currently worked around, if it meant that nothing bad ever happened to the boy's mother. "Amount of bloody time I've spent on him I'm not having someone else screw it all up now."

"So what would you do if I did name someone else as his guardian."

"Kill 'em," he said, without missing a beat. "And then take him in anyway."

"Myles!" she gasped. "You can't just go around _murdering_ people to get what you want!"

He grunted as though he didn't see a problem in that being _exactly_ how he went about getting whatever he may want, and poured himself a glass of water from the jug in the middle of the table.

She shook her head with a sigh.

"You want some?" he offered.

"Sure. But alright, what if it was my sister? Violence isn't the answer."

He snorted; "That depends entirely on the question."

She rolled her eyes at him. She knew he had a point, but she was a more peaceful spirit than he.

"You wouldn't leave Dom to your sister anyway," he justified. "Poor woman wouldn't cope. It'd be like gifting a spaniel to a office worker."

"Alright true, but say I _did_ …"

"Fine, fine. Then I'd pay her off, if my preferred alternative would upset you," he shrugged. "I'm not sure what you're getting at here – if you die, the boy is mine. He'd say the same himself."

"And what if _you_ die?"

He was quiet for just long enough to excuse it as a moment of concentration in getting the water levels in the pair of glasses to match up, and then;

"If I die, I die," he shrugged nonchalantly; it was always a greater possibility in his job than most others, after all. If that actuality bothered you unduly, you were in the wrong line of work.

"Myles..." Theresa sighed. She was not a bodyguard, after all, and it did indeed bother her that he was so blasé about the possibility of being 'Killed in Action'. That and the fact he would no doubt pass the trait onto her son, if he was given the chance.

"Well what do you want me to say?" he asked. He knew how much it worried her, he just had no experience on managing the concern. "Good luck?"

She laughed a little at that, despite herself.

"Besides," he assured her. "Pa trains Dom as much as I do anyway - that side wouldn't be a problem."

"That wasn't the 'side' I was worried about, to be honest," she told him.

"Well, I know I'm great and all, but it's not like I'm _that_ irreplaceable," The Major shrugged again, despite his usual, measured arrogance. "The next best Diamond would come and guard Artemis and... well, I wouldn't be too long missed."

"Oh I don't know," she said, smiling at him. "So don't go throwing yourself in front of any bullets any time soon, hmm?"

"That's never really the plan, to be honest," he said, glancing around the room. "More the contingency. How long do you normally wait around for a server in these places if you're not VIP? You'd think people would eat before they came just in case it was another three hours before they so much as saw a menu…"

He tailed off, muttering. She was still smiling at him, so he quirked an eyebrow at her questioningly.

"What?" he said slowly - _suspiciously_.

"Nothing," she chuckled. "Just that you're hilarious when you're out of your comfort zone, you know that?"

"Comfort zone?" he scoffed. "What are you talking about? I spend my life making _absolutely certain_ I'm in direct line of fire at all times – I don't get to visit the _'comfort zone'_."

He said _'comfort zone'_ as though it was an area reserved solely for wimps and sissies and was no place for a hardened, seasoned bodyguard such as he to find himself in anyway.

"Myles – your comfort zone _is_ directly in the line of fire," she snorted. "Not some swanky restaurant."

"The Fowls visit posh joints all the time," he countered. " _You're_ the bloody thorn in my side tonight."

"And always," she said airily, taking a sip of her drink. "I know."

Fortunately, a waiter did indeed finally arrive before they could continue their bickering.

The poor man seemed a little flustered as he put the thin, leather-bound booklets on the table and Myles would have betted he'd probably drawn the short straw to serve the strange 'couple' at table twenty-two.

"Would you like to order, sir? Madam?"

"Obviously," Myles muttered under his breath.

"My…"

He glared at her and she sighed.

"Can you just _behave_ , please?" she hissed. He glowered and she glared back, adding; "The poor man is only doing his job. Stop being such a brute."

'Brute' - that wasn't a new one. Along with 'oaf', 'heathen', 'troll' and more, Theresa had many a nickname for a Butler causing her irritation.

"I'll just leave you to decide – I'll be back in a few minutes," the server gabbled quickly.

The menu lay unopened on the table and, seeing Theresa make no move to reach for it, Myles picked it up and handed it back to the waiter.

"No need. Just give us whatever today's special is. No seafood, no mushrooms. Don't bother with the starters either, thanks."

The server looked a little surprised but jotted down the request all the same.

"You suppose I like it when the man takes charge?" Theresa asked, accusingly. She knew full well he knew she didn't, of course. He knew her too well for that.

"Not at all," he said with a shrug. "But I know you don't like seafood or mushrooms and the sooner we eat, the sooner we can leave."

"Wow, Myles," she deadpanned. "How romantic."

"I'm not trying to… why would I be trying to be romantic?" he protested.

"Relax, _Jack_. I wouldn't want you to try. Might give yourself a coronary or something…" she downed the rest of the 'anti-restaurant-ejection' wine glass she had ordered before he arrived and sat back. "But you could at least act as though you _want_ to be here."

He caught, but ignored, the _'frosty'_ reference.

"I don't," he said bluntly.

"I _know_ ," she returned with a huff. "I did say 'act'."

The table fell silent for a bit after that and he was able to catch snatches of other people's conversations. They had stopped going on about whether or not the other people at their table had seen 'that massive guy over there', anyway. He made a quick surveillance of the large room. He had already checked for the nearest exits, of course, but it never hurt to keep one eye on your surroundings. Something stuck out to him and he dropped his gaze back to the woman opposite him.

"'Resa…" he started, hardly moving his mouth as he spoke.

She didn't answer.

She was sulking, he presumed – correctly.

"Do you know anybody here tonight?" he continued anyway, covering the movement of his mouth with one hand under the guise of scratching his chin.

"Aside from you? No, Myles. Need I remind you, as is the cause of you being so unwillingly present, I do not know anyone else here."

"Ah alright," he shrugged, maintaining his watching.

He waited. She would ask. There was more than just a 'Butler' influence to Domovoi's innate curiosity.

"Why?" she asked, interest piqued despite her mood.

 _Ha. Called it._

" _Because_ ," he said, slowly. "There's a woman on your six who's been eyeballing us on and off for the past three minutes or so and now she's pointed over at us at least twice to the man who's with her."

She looked confused so he clarified; "Behind you."

"I know _that_ , dipshit. I was just wondering who the hell she would be and how to look around at her without making it obvious."

"Well, have you got a mirror?"

Theresa pulled a face at him. "Do I look like a woman who carries a mirror around?"

"You should – they can be very useful."

"Well that's grand. Have you not got one then?" she asked in an accusing undertone.

"Left my handbag in the car," he deadpanned.

She tried not to laugh; smirked instead and he claimed that as a small victory.

"Alright. Bathroom trip, then?" he suggested, although it would nark him to have her out of his sight for a few minutes.

 _Not yours to watch, Myles,_ he reminded himself.

Not his _charge_ , he meant. Obviously.

 _Obviously._

"No, I'm not that bothered," she sighed, sitting back in her chair.

"You might want to change your mind about that – looks like they're getting up to leave and they'll come over this way on their way out."

"They?" she frowned.

"Yeah – like I said; there's a man with her. Six foot maybe, dark hair, square-rimmed glasses. The woman with him is about your height, blonde hair. Big necklace, lips redder than a baboon's ar…"

"Oh god," she groaned.

He frowned quizzically but as the couple came into her line of sight as they threaded their way through the tables towards them, Theresa's forced smile alerted him to that fact that she did indeed know one – if not both – of the people. And that was no happy coincidence either, by the looks of things.

"Quick – make it look like we're together," she said through bared teeth.

"What?" he asked, dipping his head to better hear her over the hubbub.

"Do something so they think we're a couple," she hissed. "I'll explain later."

She gave a tinkling false laugh, reaching across the table as though to push him playfully on the forearm. He caught her hand. A flash of annoyance crossed his features, but then he broke into a faux chuckle of his own, folding his large paw around hers and resting them both, nestled together, on the pristine tablecloth.

He had a smudge of gun polish on the knuckle of his thumb that he hadn't cleaned on his way out to meet her and her nail varnish had chipped where she had been picking at it nervously waiting for him to arrive.

 _Perfectly imperfect,_ she thought.

"Oh, Theresa! _Theresa_! Hi – _fancy_ seeing you here!" the woman began in a high-pitched waver, all teeth and pearls. The Major took an instant disliking to her, although that could simply have been him surfing the wave of irritation that rolled off his tablemate at the woman's sudden appearance.

" _Penelope_! I didn't know you came to this restaurant – what a coincidence!" Theresa said, through thin lips.

"Oh yes, _Nigel_ and I come every Friday evening, don't we, Nigel?"

"Yes, dear," said Nigel, who appeared to be one of those incredibly _boring_ breeds of businessman; the kind who worked in a big city for a big paycheck, in a grey office wearing a grey suit, but left his wife at their multi-bedroomed home alone all week to do the spending. Myles had worked for a couple of those before Artemis had been born and they had always been his least-favourite kind of charges. _'Chinless wonders'_ his father called them. Would stride around an office throwing statistics and barking orders at those with lower salaries than themselves, but as soon as it came to anything remotely beyond the four dimensions of their workplace, they were revealed to be tremendously niche _bores_.

"I've never _seen_ you in here before," the man's wife – who appeared to have enough energy for the both of them – continued.

"No, we don't come often – not compared to you it sounds, anyway," Theresa lied. Myles himself had never stepped foot in this particular establishment before and he doubted she had either.

"Special occasion, is it then? Anniversary?"

Myles doubted anyone else saw the slight flinch Theresa gave when the word fluttered from the other woman's scarlet-painted lips, but he felt her hand twitch under his. He mentally checked the date and barely refrained from giving a sudden, understanding nod. Theresa had once told him that she had met Beckett – in a bad way, as she put it – just before Christmas some three years before Domovoi had been born. Which would make it ten years if Beckett was still around… he squeezed her hand, gently. It didn't seem to matter that Theresa gave no answer, for Penelope steamrollered on with her torrent of words.

" _Where_ are my manners? _You_ must be Domonic's father – how lovely to meet you! Your son and ours go to the same school – although I'm _sure_ you already knew that!"

She gave another overly-loud laugh and Myles replied with a taut-lipped smile. He did not know, but it was not hard to start piecing things together. He decided to let Theresa take the lead on this one.

"Oh – no," she said, falteringly making her choice on the matter. "Dom's father and I, we… aren't together. This is…"

"Mike. Mike Kendrew," The Major interrupted. "Great to meet you both."

"Oh my _apologies_ – you _do_ have such a similar look to the boy, if you don't mind me saying so!" she tittered. "Goodness – me and my assumptions! I _have_ embarrassed myself!"

"Not at all," he said suavely, although the way she kept emphasising words unnecessarily was really starting to grate on his temper.

He tinged his words with a Scottish twang, Theresa noticed, and held out his hand. Penelope seemed a little taken aback but offered hers politely anyway and Theresa booted Myles hard in the shin when he raised the back of her hand to his lips. He didn't seem to notice and Penelope blushed and pulled her hand away quickly, lest the action seem improper. The Major reached forward clasped Nigel's hand in his own, thankfully _not_ kissing that too, but instead almost crushing it as he shook it, smiling at him before the man could look affronted.

"Nigel, wasn't it? Theresa was just telling me the other day about Dom and your son," he lied easily. "Friends, aren't they?"

"Oh yes?" said Nigel, a little stiffly. "I wouldn't know, I'm afraid. I work away during the week, you see."

"Mike's the same, aren't you?" Theresa interrupted sharply. "He works…"

"Out on the rigs," 'Mike' interrupted. "On the two-four shifts at the moment. First night back on dry land; hence the restaurant."

It was a good cover story, truth be told. Theresa could easily explain away these school-circle acquaintances never seeing him again and should it happen that they did bump into eachother again, he could merely explain himself away as being on a 'rest week'.

"Oh really, what company?" asked the businessman, seeming almost genuinely interested for the first time since they had met.

Fortunately, before The Major was forced to rapidly come up with the name of a plausible sounding sea-based oil field business, the waiter arrived with their food.

"Oh _look_ at _us_ – don't let us keep you from _enjoying_ your food! Come, Nigel. I want to be going home before the carpark gets frosty. In _these_ heels I'll slip… Enjoy your meal, Theresa… Mike."

Nigel was all but towed away and Penelope threw a coy look over her shoulder at the gallant, stranger. He looked well-sculpted under that suit. Handsome, too – in a giant, rugged sort of way. Myles didn't notice; he was already digging into his meal.

"And what do you think you were doing there?" Theresa hissed at him.

The bodyguard shrugged and swallowed. "You told me to act. I was _acting_."

" _Acting_ like a complete fecking idiot," she muttered, starting on her own plate of food. "Did you see her face? She would have been all over you if Nigel wasn't standing right there."

"I know," he said, smugly. "I _happen_ to be very charming,"

"When you want to be…" Theresa muttered. "And stop doing that thing she does with the _word saying_ shite. It does my head in. And if you dare pull a stunt like that again it'll be your bollocks I kick you in instead of your shins."

"That was a kick? Dom hits me worse by accident."

"Shut up."

Myles grinned around his mouthful of food. Anyone would think the Irishwoman was _jealous_.

"I did it on purpose," he justified. "Now she'll remember more what I _did_ and less of what I looked like."

"You think?"

"It's worked before. And believe me it's hard to be unrecognisable when you're as big as me; we stick out like a sore thumb. That's something the shorter guys at The Academy always had on me and Beck. Didn't have much else, of course."

Theresa humphed and muttered something that sounded like _'a likely story'_ as she started on her food.

"So what's their kid like? Does Dom get on with him?"

"No – he's an upstart little prick and Dom's put him on his arse twice this school year already," Theresa told him, with no sign of regret at her son's actions.

"Ah I see," Myles nodded. "Not friends, then?"

"Not exactly, no," Theresa snorted. "Although I'm sure Penelope will forget you suggested that, what with her practically wetting herself at your bloody antics."

He smirked into his next forkful as she stabbed at a loose vegetable on her plate.

They finished their meal in relative silence, each mulling over their strange situation to themselves.

"You still hungry?" he asked her.

"Why, are you?"

"Well considering this is my second dinner tonight, not really, no."

"Good job you're so fecking enormous you probably have room for three then, eh?" she jibed.

He flicked through the smaller menu that the waiter had left behind when he took their plates.

"Want to share a dessert or something?"

"That depends. You paying?"

" _Obviously_. I am the _suave_ and _chivalrous_ Mike Kendrew, I'll have you know."

"You're a large and annoying dickhead, more like," Theresa snorted. But she smiled this time and Myles knew he was at least partially forgiven for his ridiculous charade.

"What do you want?"

"Oh no – you choose, Mr _Chivalrous_ ," she drawled.

Myles rolled his eyes in regret. He'd be hearing about this one for months.

"We can get coffees at the same time if you like," she said, seeing them advertised on the back of the menu he was holding and offering only half-sarcastically. "You know; quicker."

"Whatever you like – it's your evening," he said, raising his hands in mock submission.

" _My evening_ , he says…" she muttered, snatching the menu from him.

Once the waiter and come and gone again with their order – profiteroles, since it was the easiest to share – Theresa confronted her friend about the alias he had chosen.

"Well first off, it's one of mine anyway," he told her.

"Obviously. Secondly?" she prompted.

"Well… you know. Seemed appropriate."

She frowned. "Why?"

He stopped speaking as the waiter returned with their plate of dessert, two shining, silver forks and their drinks in white porcelain. He was gone again in a swirl of an apron; eager to spend as little time with them as possible, it would seem.

"Myles, Beckett. My, Beck, Mike… Close enough," the bodyguard shrugged.

"Oh," she said, piercing a profiterole with rather unnecessary force. "You think a lot for someone who doesn't give a shit."

"Don't be daft; of course I give a shit," he said, adding to clarify; "About some things."

She said nothing to that and it seemed to upset her; the mention of his brother once more, so he changed the subject. Badly, perhaps, but at least it meant she was upset about something else.

"So who were you meant to be meeting here?"

"Oh just some guy from Dom's martial arts thing he does on a Saturday."

Myles wondered if it was the same idiot that couldn't see how naturally talented the boy was.

"That he will _not_ be turning up to tomorrow after this," Theresa continued.

"Ah come on; can't use the kid as ammo," he chided. "Rule number one in relationships, right?"

"And what would you know about relationships, Myles? Besides that bloody car of yours?" she snarked.

He had to admit she had a point. Deciding it wasn't worth the argument, he sighed.

"You leave my Bertha out of this…" he mumbled, pretending to be hurt.

Theresa sniffed, relenting and shaking her head. He waited for her to laugh at him for the nickname and when she didn't, he realised just quite how upset she was.

"I'm sorry. I'm being unfair, it's just… I'm frustrated. And upset. I mean, for the first time since…" she took a shaky breath to compose herself. "It's been _ten years_ since I met anyone I remotely clicked with – you aside, since that's never going to happen. And for the first time since I – _we_ – lost Beck, I thought maybe… maybe I'd found someone fairly decent – who actually _wants_ a relationship – is not out of my league and hell, I even _liked_ them. Liked them enough to put goddamn _lipstick_ on, of all things. And now I'm all dressed up like a fool with no place to go and so I have to get my best friend, who just so happens to be the _fecking identical brother_ of the guy I'm trying to get over, to come sit with me so I don't look like a complete loser and to top it off, Penelope _bloody_ Fenway drops in like the nosy, interfering harpy from hell that she is and so now it'll be all over the damn school that she saw me with you and… what the hell is my life, Myles? Seriously? What did I do to deserve this?

There were a lot of things to take in in that outburst and so Myles chewed a profiterole whilst he waited for her to finish, then processed it before speaking carefully.

"I'm your… your best friend?" he asked, with a strange look on his face.

It was something between pleasant surprise and… something she couldn't quite place. Was it… _disappointment?_ No, it wouldn't be that. She had only _'friend-zoned'_ him as self-defence – and basically at his own request, after all.

"What?" Theresa said in disbelief. "I spill my guts to you and the only thing you pick up on is something you already know? _Of course_ you're my best friend, Mylo – who _else_ do I have in this world who actually wants to help me?"

He hid his smile with another profiterole. He would never tell her he actually didn't mind at all when she called him by her nickname for him, no matter how many times he pulled her up for it.

"What?" she asked when he was silent a moment too long. "What are you thinking?"

He took a slug of his coffee – nasty stuff, too milky and frothy for his liking, but he drank it all the same – before answering.

"Just wondering why a high caffeine drink is standard social practice at the end of an evening meal. I mean, it's hardly conducive to a good night's sl…"

" _Myles_! Jesus, Mary, Joseph _Chris_ t _!_ Can you _ever_ just for five minutes talk about something serious that doesn't involve guns or cars? For once in your life just…" she finished with a growl of frustration; he exasperated her with the way he dodged anything that may possibly put a chink in his stony defences. Any emotive topic of relationships, pain, his brother – and he would be off on a tangent avoiding the line of questioning with the same prowess he dodged punches in a fight.

"OK, OK," he relented, putting down his cup and staring at her so intently she would have flinched had she not been used to those dark eyes. "Firstly, you've done nothing to deserve this shit, it'll just be the Butler curse rubbing off on you, believe me. You've spent far too much time with us, it was bound to happen eventually, right? So that's that. And secondly, I don't think you look foolish at all. I think you look very… you know, nice."

" _Nice?_ Jeeze Myles, don't dish out the compliments too freely, will you?" she rolled her eyes and tried to drink some of her coffee. It was a bit too hot to sip yet, though she noticed he'd already downed half of his. Asbestos-mouthed, as he was. "Anyone would think you actually noticed I'm not in my scrubs."

 _Alright, you look gorgeous, actually,_ he thought. _Right now and even when you are in your 'scrubs'. But as your number one best buddy and uncle of your accidental child to my disappeared brother, I can't really tell you that._

"Fine," he relented. "You look _very_ nice indeed – much better than Penelope what's-her-face – and any man who stood you up would be kicking himself if he saw you. Actually, if I found him first he wouldn't be able to kick himself at all. What with both his legs being in plaster and shoved right up his…"

" _Don't_ start," she said with a sad smile.

He gave a shrewd grin and Theresa rolled her eyes at him.

"I can look after myself – I don't need you going around _punishing_ people or whatever on my behalf. I'm sure it was just a mistake, anyway. Wrong day, wrong restaurant…"

"Wrong _guy_ , more like," Myles grunted.

She ignored the comment.

"Everyone makes mistakes – we can't all be perfect like you," she told him. "He probably meant to be here and just… forgot, or something."

Myles made a noise that sounded as though he did not believe that at all. But he didn't correct her on his being 'perfect'.

"Doesn't matter, anyway. I've actually had a very _nice_ evening. We should mate-date more often."

"Not bloody likely," he snorted. "What if we bumped into _Penelope_ and _Nigel_? I'd have to keep up that Scottish accent twice a month for the rest of my life!"

"Twice a month, then – deal?"

"No," he said firmly. "This was a _one-time_ deal."

She gave a funny sort of smirk. "Hmm. And I remember another time you said those words…"

Myles caught her drift and folded his giant forearms into a physical representation of his certainty on the matter.

"And I have kept to them, have I not?"

"Yes, Myles," she sighed. "And you and your _word-keeping_ habits have saved us from a severely happy and complicated life, I'm sure."

"Horrendously complicated," he agreed. He didn't want to get into this debate. It would certainly ruin the evening, for they both knew their current arrangement was ultimately better for everyone involved, no matter how easy it would be to fall into another one.

"Well I don't know… 'horrendous' is a bit far," she said, with another strange smile.

"Don't start," he muttered. "Not when you're a glass or two of wine down and I've dined out on chocolate, cream and whatever else is in this shitty coffee."

"Crashing your diet does that sort of thing to you, does it now?" she asked, with a raised brow.

"Not usually, no," he said. "But if I've already started a night of things I know I'll regret later, it may seem less pointless not to just carry on the trend."

"Don't let Penelope hear," she snorted. "You'll be getting a chocolate box delivered to you every week."

"Give up," he grimaced and pulled out his wallet as he gestured to the waiter for the bill.

She laughed at him and pushed the last profiterole across the plate towards him.

"Well there you go, eat that and call it a night on the regret-front, eh?"

"You have it," he said, grateful she was ending her pursuit of the topic.

She speared it on the tines of her fork and held it up.

"All yours – consider it payment for spending time with me – since I know there's no point asking you to split the bill."

"Obviously," he scoffed. "How could I claim to be charming and chivalrous if I let you do that?"

"Well, you deserve something in return for putting up with me," she said. "Least I could do is buy you a meal."

"But I _like_ spending time with you," he frowned, barely checking the amount before laying the money and a fairly generous tip down on the silver platter the bill had come on. Well, he had been a bit of an arse to the poor guy at the start of the evening…

"I like spending time with you too," she said, pushing her hand closer to his face. "Now eat the damn profiterole."

He stared into her turquoise eyes for a long moment – she would one day bear a daughter with the same, stunning trait. Not that either of them had a clue about that yet – then snatched the chocolate-coated pastry ball with his strong, ivory teeth.

"There, see? Last regret of the evening," she grinned. "You fat shit."

He growled at her but with his mouth full couldn't make much more of an objection.

"Come on," she said, as she snatched up the mints that had come with the bill. "Before they start offering us more drinks. I don't think Pa will find it funny if he has to come bail us both out of the drunk tank in the morning."

* * *

 **Answer of the Chapter today, since I can't actually think of an interesting question just now:**

 **So why are the Butler twins called 'Myles' and 'Beckett' like the younger Fowl brothers in years to come?**

 **Well the answer to that if in my fic 'Dead in Absentia', but if you can't be arsed reading a 90K+ word fic (and I don't blame you), basically The Major told Artemis Senior his and his brother's name as the Fowl Star was going down. Explosions, a decade or so and memory-loss later, Artemis Senior picked out two seemingly-random names for his twin sons and Angeline liked them. A fitting, if unintentional, tribute.**

* * *

 **Including this one and those previous to it, there should be 10 updates in total to this fic. Which – if I stick to my plan and don't add stuff or miss a posting – means this should be finishing up on Christmas Eve. Those dedicated enough to work that out will know how many updates a week that means. Two, for those of you who can't be arsed haha**

 **So yeah, a bit early for Christmas yet, perhaps, but I did miss the last one for you, so take it as an early present on me. And if you don't celebrate Christmas, no worries - out of the blue prezzies are the best, right?!**

 **Of course, the other eventuality is that I do get the sequel (that's been whizzing around my head today) to this written in the next couple of days and then it'll be double-posting from me to keep up to the deadline haha**

 **Wolfy  
ooo  
O**


	4. Chapter 3 - Diversion

**Thanks to: Steinbock,Jolinnn, long ago reader, for the reviews.**

 **long ago reader - I know, I know, I'm sorry - no idea how time got away from me so quick this time haha Can't promise it won't happen again either, so enjoy this one whilst it lasts ahaha**

 **And to Kath who I forgot to reply to on the last chapter, sorry! - Thank-you and I'm glad you like it :)**

 **WARNINGS: Usual apply. Language, a little violence and awkwardness. Also - BIIIG chapter. Probably should have split it somewhere but I didn't want to ruin the flow.**

 **DISCLAIMER: Colfer's world, I'm just telling the backstory.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER THREE**

 **Diversion**

 **Definition: 1) Turning something away from its course**

 **2) An activity that diverts the mind from tedious or serious concern**

* * *

 **The Streets, Dublin**

The Major had, of course, _not_ parked his beloved Bentley in the insecure carpark of the restaurant and the footpaths, as Mrs Fenway had feared, were slippery with a thin frost already coating the tarmac.

"Where've you parked?" Theresa said, her teeth chattering already in the sharp air.

"Not far," he said evasively, setting off at a brisk walk.

A couple of minutes later she was thoroughly unimpressed at the downsides of his security once again. He had, of course, parked the car in his nearest 'safe spot'. The place had several exit roads, there were no high vantage points for a sniper to set up on and the only CCTV cameras in the area were easily hacked in case they required wiping later.

Of course, that didn't mean they were entirely out of risk.

"Maybe I'll just walk home next time," Theresa muttered. "My feet are fecking killing me…"

"Shouldn't have worn heels," Myles told her simply. "Entirely ridiculous shoes, if you ask me."

"Yes, well - that will be why I _don't_ ask you, won't it?" she said sarcastically. "Although Dom actually told me to wear the flats too. So I could 'run away from bad guys', apparently."

"Smart kid," his uncle said with an approving nod.

"I had to convince him I'd be able to defend myself better driving the heel of one of these through a guy's eyeball if it came to it, before he let me wear them," she explained.

The Major snorted loudly, as though he very much doubted she could do that. Before they could get into an argument over whether or not she would, let alone _could_ , Theresa had - in a most Domvoi-like fashion - spotted something shiny that distracted her and grabbed his arm.

"Aw look!"

"What? What is it?" he asked, instantly alert for a threat, scanning the area rapidly. But the only thing he could see that was even remotely out of the ordinary was the twinkling glow from a large Christmas tree which stood at the end of the street in the middle of a roundabout.

"Chill out, big guy," she chuckled. "The tree. I was only looking at the tree."

"You were not _looking_ ," he said, somewhat tetchily. "You were wildly gesticulating. Don't do that without warning. I'm a bodyguard. I get... jumpy."

"I'll _wildly gesticulate_ at you in a minute, Jumpy," she told him, rolling her eyes. "Can we go look?"

"We are looking," he said bluntly. "Ah yes, there it is - the drying carcass of a great pine, now reduce to some sort of highly-flammable ornament decorated in highly-inefficient light-bulbs placed in a prime position to distract drivers and cause road traffic accidents. It looks better from here, believe me."

"Spoil sport," she tutted. "Well I'm going to see it anyway. You stay here if you want."

And with that she set off towards it.

"I thought you said your feet were sore?" he pointed out.

"They are," she admitted. "But if I didn't ever do painful things I wouldn't ever listen to you mumble on about security threats, would I?"

"You _don't_ ever listen to me when I'm..." he paused, frowning. "I don't _'_ _mumble on about security threats'_ \- I give you pertinent advice on..."

"Can't hear you - you're mumbling!" she shouted over her shoulder. "You coming or what?"

He let her go ten paces before his resolve broke and he followed her, muttering about 'grass being greener' and 'alternative route plans'.

He knew the street leading up to the roundabout was made up of residential housing and he knew that there was a pub that fronted out onto the roundabout itself - a nightmare for any bodyguard concerned about a drive-by shooting through the pub windows - but he did not, without at least a little contemplation, know a safe way back to the car after such a diversion.

"Alright," she said, once they had reached the end of the road. "You win. It did look better from a distance."

"Did you just admit I was right about something?" Myles mocked, appraising the grubby lightbulbs and scraggly boughs of the tree. It seemed oddly-lit, even for a crappy roundabout tree, and before long he had picked out the dull globes of unlit bulbs winding their way through dark branches.

 _Idiots had one job,_ he thought to himself. _Can't even wire fairy lights correctly._

It did not improve his general disdain for the apparent lack of ability of the vast majority of the human race. 'Majority'; a few passed his stringent standards. But only a few.

"Oh shut up, it's not like it's a rarity," she said, leaning on the railings that separated the road from the pavement. "You're right about a lot of things."

"Bloody hell... Must be Christmas," he smirked.

"Hmm, speaking of which," she said, picking up the subject. "What have you got Dom?"

Myles was quiet for a moment and it was enough to make her switch her gaze to him.

"My-les," she drew out. " _What_ have you got Dom?"

"I'd tell you, but you won't like it," he warned.

She sighed. "At this point I'm generally beyond exasperation with you Butlers - what is it? It can't be that bad."

"Oh no it's not _bad_ ," he assured her. "He'll love it."

"Myles, he'd love it if you got him anything from a gun holster to a grenade launcher," she shook her head.

He had the grace to cringe his face into a grin slightly.

"A gun holster, really? He's just turned seven!"

"It could have been a grenade launcher," he shrugged, holding out his hands as a peace offering.

" _Why_ have you bought my son a gun holster?!"

"Because he's my nephew," he said, frankly.

"Right," she sighed. "Fine. Not as though he has anything to put in it anyway."

"Ah..."

"'Ah' _what?_ " she said and Myles recognised her 'dangerous' voice. He was rightly wary of it.

"He's... _sort of_ got his own gun," he said, treading carefully.

Theresa gave an exasperated sigh.

"Well, it's not really 'his' exactly. It's a little big for him at the moment."

"Ah yes - that'll be because he's a _child_ ," she said, drily.

"It's just more he really likes it," Myles continued anyway. "And I... ah... said he can have it in the future if he wants."

" _'Future'_ , Myles. I'm holding you to that. _'Distant future'_ , would be nice."

"Do. You don't need to worry. It'll be next year before he's doing anything serious with guns."

"It's December."

"So it is," he said, as though - stood as they were in front of a Christmas tree - this had slipped his mind.

"It's inevitable, isn't it?" she asked, rhetorically. "I might as well just get used to it."

"It... it would help," he said, as meekly as it was possible for his gargantuan self to say. "Or..."

"Or tell him he can't be a bodyguard and lose him to it anyway because that's what he wants to do."

"He may change his mind yet," Myles offered, as though this was any sort of possibility.

"He might also only make a height of five foot four and decide to be a jockey. With you and Pa as his heroes? Not bloody likely he'll want to be anything else, is it?"

There was nothing to say in response to that. She was right. Whether by nature or nurture, little Domovoi had set his heart on following in the footsteps of his ancestors. Of course, he was completely free to change his mind and any point, but Myles liked to think it was in the boy's blood to make a Diamond.

"Come on," he said, suddenly. "Let's see if this tree looks better even closer up."

"What - like on the rounabout?"

"Yeah, why not?" he said, hopping over the railings with an agility that would make a parkouring teen jealous.

"Because it's probably illegal?"

" _'Probably illegal'_ ," he snorted. "If I didn't do things that were _'probably illegal'_..."

"That entire string of off-lights is bothering you, isn't it?" she said, following him in a rather more ungainly fashion.

"Shut up," he grumbled at her, confirming she was right.

By the time she had teetered somewhat precariously over the barrier and crunched her way across the gritted road, he had already broken into the electric box at the bottom of the tree and was fiddling around with the wires inside.

"You'll get yourself electrocuted," she warned - he ignored her. "And nobody will even notice because you haven't any hair to stand on end."

"Pretty sure that isn't actually what happens," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh yeah?" she challenged. "Have you ever actually _seen_ anyone electrocuted."

"Yes, actually," he said, unplugging one set of lights and and plunging the whole tree into darkness.

"Of course you have," she said, with a sigh. "You've made it worse, by the way."

"Hush," he scowled. "You don't tell your hairdresser it's a shit cut halfway through too, do you?"

"I don't have a hairdresser. Hairdressers cost money."

"You want a haircut for Christmas, then?"

"Are you saying I need one?" she asked.

"No," he said, not turning away from the electric box. "I think your hair looks fine just how it is."

Stood behind him, Theresa smiled and shook her head slightly. It wouldn't kill him to give her a compliment, but he sure acted as though it would.

"What happened to the electrocuted guy?"

"Died," said the bodyguard, bluntly. "Tends to happen when you try to land a parachute on a pylon."

"Oh," she said. "I see."

"Uh-huh," he said, pulling a pocket torch from his jacket and holding it in his teeth.

"Was he..." she wasn't sure whether to pry further. "Was he a friend of yours?"

"No," he said, around the torch. "'ylon saved 'e a job."

He did something else with the wires and the electric box that Theresa wasn't really paying attention to whilst trying to reinforce her denial filters on the previous - and some current - assignments her friend had been part of over the years.

"Working now?" he said, spitting out his flashlight into his palm.

There was a moment more of darkness and then, like a Mexican-wave, the bulbs flashed on one by one.

She looked up, not needing to say anything as he followed her gaze and to be honest, the colours did sort of improve with intensity at this short distance.

"Ah good, because to be honest, that was the only thing I was going to try before cutting the wires altogether," he admitted. "At least that way they might get a proper electrician out to look at them."

"Don't tell Dom you nearly didn't know what to do. He thinks you can do anything."

"Aye, well," Myles said, getting up from his crouched position and dusting off his knees where they had touched the frosty grass. "That'll also be 'because he's a child'."

"True," she said, knocking her head back to look all the way to the top of the tree some twenty foot above.

"What does he think of you dating?" he asked.

The question seemed almost out of the blue and she faltered.

"Who, Dom?"

"Who else?"

"He… I dunno, he seems OK with it. Tells me so long as I'm happy, he's happy. I do worry about him though; he'd never tell me if something was wrong. Gets that from his father," she told him. "Or you."

The Major hummed. He thought as much.

"I was wondering, actually…" she continued.

"Always concerning…" he mused.

"Shut up," she smacked his arm good-naturedly. "I was wondering if you could maybe talk to him about it?"

"About you dating, you mean?"

"Yeah. I mean, he's never going to tell me if he's unhappy with it. But he might tell you."

"What do you want me to say to him exactly?" The Major frowned. This was once again straying into unfamiliar territory and things not exactly taught at Madam Ko's.

"Oh I dunno. Just… have like a man-to-man chat with him. I worry he misses out on those sorts of things."

"I don't think you need to worry too much. It's not like he hasn't _any_ male role models."

"Except that you and Pa are his only ones," Theresa sighed.

"Exactly. And he's around us all the time. That's all he needs," The Major said, then before she could start an argument on her son's rather unbalanced standing when it came to the quality, quantity and variety of relevant male figures in his life; "Alright, I'll talk to him about it if I get chance. You want me to give him _'the birds and the bees'_ chat as well?"

"Good God no," she exclaimed. "He's only seven – you'll terrify him!"

"Well thank fuck for that," Myles snorted. "I was rather hoping to leave that one to Pa, to be honest."

"Oh why, because he did _such_ a good job with you and Beck?"

"That was our mother's fault, actually," Myles told her.

"Really?"

"You haven't met our mother, have you?"

"Not yet - though I've heard a lot about her. She sounds... interesting."

"Yep," The Major said, as though that about covered it. "Well, our sex ed crash course was delivered by dear old Mumsie herself, complete with a frankly _horrifying_ demonstration with plants. Anyone would think she never wanted grandkids."

"Well dear Lord don't let her anywhere near Dom, then," Theresa laughed.

"I try to avoid that in all circumstances, to be honest," Myles admitted. "Did I tell you she used to lightly poison us as kids so we'd build up a resistance?"

"You did. And a healthy bit of cyanide never did you any harm, I'm sure."

"Nothing long-term, at any rate. Produced a nice, well-rounded individual…"

"Just lingering insanity, a lust for beating people up and a crippling case of selflessness," Theresa listed on her fingers. "Accompanied by conflicting equal measures of abject arrogance and crippling self-esteem issues and not forgetting a complete inability to process emotions."

Myles wouldn't admit that she had hit the Butler twins pretty square on with her description points there. In the nearby pub a raucous was building up inside. He could hear male voices shouting. They should leave before the owners of the voices got themselves ejected...

"Ma and Pa raised two fine strapping young gentlemen, I'll have you know," he said, eyeing the glowing squares of glass in the pub's walls.

"Oh yeah – you really must introduce me to these other brothers of yours sometime."

"I don't have any other brothers. There's just me and Beck, you know that," he said, slow on the uptake being as preoccupied as he was with checking their surroundings and trying to think of an example to prove he was not at least one of those things she had just said. "Oh. Nevermind – I get it. Very funny."

"I wonder; do you think it was nature or nurture that turned you into a hulking troll with sentimentality issues?" she asked as she hopped on one foot, pulling off first one high heel and then the next. The frosted grass felt crunchy and painfully cold beneath her feet, but she revelled in it, soothing her aching blisters with the melt-water.

He drew his eyes away from the pub at her movement and noise of content and frowned.

"Jaysus, 'Resa – you can't walk around Dublin in bare feet; you'll hurt yourself..."

She smiled. Partly because she sometimes liked the way he fussed over her wellbeing. Partly because she really liked it when his clipped and professional accent sometimes slipped. Partly because she _always_ liked it when he called her 'Resa.

Before they could discuss it, an explosion of shouting tumbled from a roadside pub and the makers of it shortly followed - as predicted - a mass brawl of testosterone and alcohol-fuelled bravado being ousted from what they believed to be their territory. The majority of them stayed on the pavement, but one or two sprawled onto the road through a gap in the railings - a hazard The Major thought was likely to be a regularity - laughing at eachother's drunkenness.

Theresa barely saw him move before he was between her and them. A sort of aura roiled off him. She couldn't quite place it. It was something between protection and hostility. A not-so-passive aggression that manifested itself in a quiet, almost-involuntary growl.

"It's alright, big guy," she grinned, patting him. "I'll protect you."

He made a noise in his throat different to the other one. This one was a kind of scoff.

"Not _everyone_ is out to kill you, Mylo," she chuckled.

"It's thinking like that that gets people like me killed…" he muttered, eyeing their 'company' critically.

"Some people are just drunken yobs," she sighed.

" _Youths_ ," he grunted, as though both of them were far enough into middle age that it sounded the norm for him to be accusing others of immaturity.

"Come on. Let's get going, eh?" she said.

He nodded silently, following her as they left the roundabout for the nearest crossing island, her mincing across the gritted road, him rolling his eyes at her for being so foolishly stubborn...

And that would have been that, had one of the ' _youths'_ – who incidentally was actually of an age with themselves – not had a little too much 'Dutch courage' in his system.

"Hey darlin'," he cat-called. "Fancy leaving that gorilla and come hanging with some real men?"

Theresa turned to face them.

"Sorry – but you'll have to try harder than that, _darlin'_ ," she mocked the man, then more quietly. "Stride on, they'll give up."

" _Come hanging?_ Come han…"

"Mylo, we're in the middle of a roundabout - leave it," she said, pressing one hand into the small of his back and pushing him on.

"The cretins can't even _speak_ properly," Myles grumbled under his breath, stubbornly resistant to her encouragement to move once they had made it to the safety of the island.

" _Leave_ _it_ , babe. Come on," she sighed, grabbing his hand and tugging him forward. She was having flashbacks of pulling Beckett out of similar confrontations already. He would always be determined to leap in and 'defend her honour', so to speak. It had got him into many a scuffle he could have avoided, but she hadn't always been sure he didn't just like showing off… He had never lost, after all. Not even when he got into a mass brawl of a dozen opponents. He'd still come out the other side covered in blood and grinning like a lunatic.

"Did you just call me _'babe'_?" Myles asked, incredulously – that alone almost enough to snap him out of his rising temper.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Just... habit… mistake… I…"

"I'm not my brother," he said, reading her mind and pulling his hand away. "You don't have to be my handler; my flip-switch is a lot less sensitive, I can promise you that."

"But all you Butlers have one and you wouldn't believe how _constantly_ aware of that I am when I'm walking around with a killing machine," she said, folding her arms.

"Well _this_ one is less impulsive, I assure you," he said, somewhat haughtily.

"Walk away then, if that's the case," she dared.

"As you wish," he said shortly.

Then he strode forward, away from the men, without looking back as though to make a point and she muttered under her breath about 'pot and kettle' and 'give it another five minutes and tell me that'. She stopped to rub the salt off the bottom of her foot and suddenly one of the 'cretins' was far too close, pressing himself up against her and almost knocking her over in the process.

"Oi! _Back off_ , dickhead!" she snapped, standing straight and knocking him back a step with a hard shove to the chest.

"That _hard_ enough for you, _darlin'_?" he laughed, stepping forward again and making as though to grab her as he...

There was a heavy _thwack_ as a sack of meat and bones hit the floor and a shield of muscle appeared in front of her.

"Oh for the love of God – _My-les_!" Theresa groaned. "You _just_ said you weren't…"

"That wasn't _impulsive_ it was _reactive_ ; he was asking for it!" the bodyguard protested, even going so far as to thrust out empty palms to protest his innocence.

"You still didn't need to deck him!"

"It's not my fault he can't take a hit…" he muttered so petulantly that for a moment she could see her own son in his giant frame, being reprimanded for carrying his penknife to school again.

"You _just_ said…"

"I only _implied_ I wouldn't kill them. And look; he's still breathing, isn't he?"

The man on the floor wasn't moving.

"I mean, _probably_ ," the giant shrugged, leaning to take a closer look. "I didn't hit him _that_ hard..."

Luckily, before Theresa could drop to her knees to check his vitals, The Major's latest victim stirred and let out a weak groan.

"See? Perfectly fine," he said, as though the man had merely tripped over a curb. "You worry too much."

"And you go around throwing punches too much - look what you've started now!" Theresa said, exasperatedly.

The rest of the group had begun howling in challenge at the treatment of their leader, some clambering over the rails, some walking to the gaps in it as they came, leering and jeering,bouncing closer with all the bravado of 'safety in numbers' and all the anger of an aggrieved mob.

"I'd just like to point out that I _didn't_ start anything," Myles corrected her. "But if needs be I _will_ finish."

"And how do you expect to do that? You going to knock all of them on their arses?" she queried, sarcastically.

"Are you suggesting I couldn't?" he smirked, bending his knees slightly to lower his centre of gravity, already planning his approach.

"That was not a challenge!" she bemoaned, about to tell him he was _exactly_ like his brother after all. "What will Pa say if you come back with a bust lip?"

"'Bust lip' my arse – any of them manages that I'll hit _myself_ in the face," he scoffed – the group had stopped a little way away anyway to weigh up their own options, shouting abuse as they did.

"OK, I actually think Beckett said that _exact_ thing once," she told him.

She saw him pause at that, processing what she had said and what it meant. He dropped his stance.

"Alright," he conceded. "I'm sorry. I'll stop it now."

"I just… I just don't want you to get hurt," she said – adding when he gave her a look of somewhat arrogant incredulity. "Or, you know, a prison sentence."

"I won't," he said calmly, raising his hands slightly in an expression of amity as the group of young men began to advance on them. "Because I'm going to deal with them in a calm and rational m – _otherfu_ – !"

The first bottle he wasn't expecting and it glanced off his shoulder as he blocked it just in time, shattering like a dropped icicle once it hit the floor. The swiftly followed second, which he _caught_ – much to the crowd's surprise – his hand snapping out and snatching the vessel from the air, barely refraining from cracking that too as he did.

"Now then, gentlemen," he said, his voice seeming to drop an octave and into a coarser accent as he spoke, spinning the bottle around by the neck. "Do we really want to be getting into something on such a fine evening?"

"No, no – come on. Mylo _please_ , let's just go…"

She could hear the plea in her voice and she hated how pathetic she sounded, but up until now, the night had been quite a salvage from the disappointment of her failed date and it was rapidly beginning to go downhill…

He ignored her, his eyes cold and calculating and she knew in that moment he could quite methodically decimate the whole group without sustaining so much as a scratch and never feel a shred of remorse about it.

"Major – let's go," she said, much more sternly.

 _Nice try,_ Myles thought. _But tapping into my programming isn't going to work this time._

"Last chance to back off before this doesn't end well for any of you," he warned as his adversaries reached the limit of his tolerance for aggressive individuals.

She grabbed his hand again, trying to drag him away, but he only used it to pull her to the safety of the eddy of calm behind him.

"You said you wouldn't!" she protested again.

"No, but I never said I didn't mind putting a few drunks in their place."

 _It would be so easy,_ Myles thought with a silent hum of contemplation. Smash the bottle in half on the skull of the first feller, use his newly acquired weapon to get rid of the other and if the third and onwards still fancied their chances, well, he still had a spare hand…

"Myles, please…"

But it would be messy and Theresa would be upset.

He dropped the bottle as the men advanced, jeering, knowing that if he didn't then training and instinct would kick in long before morals and rationalising had a chance and there would be rather a lot of blood shed before he had time to think about it.

"Alright now, that's enough," he began, holding his hands out in front him in the most unthreatening defensive stance he could muster. "Let's deal with this like gentlemen. I'll apologise to your friend if he apologises to mine…"

But then three of the men rushed them.

It wasn't difficult on this occasion to fend off an attack from three origins, but it was not as easy as he made it look. The men clearly knew very little of organised fighting, but attacked furiously after their perceived wrongdoing and even managed to land a few punches. Still, he went for none of his weapons and even took a few unnecessary blows to avoid causing too much damage. Well, _permanent_ damage, in any case.

One man, who until that moment had appeared to have a bit more fighting nous about him than the rest, attempted some sort of leap he must have thought would look cool and leapt up, swinging for The Major's head. He missed and the Butler dutifully put him on his backside on the cold, hard ground. After that and once there were now four of them were groaning in the middle of the road, the remaining half seemed to lose some of their bluster, yelling insults but otherwise backing off. They were clearly shocked and The Major doubted any single man had managed to defend himself against them in the past.

 _"It's not worth it, boys!"_ \- he heard among the shouts.

 _"Someone go get Bully – he'll give him a proper thrashing!"_

One of the men disappeared inside the pub – not that Theresa could see little beyond the massive wall of muscle between her and the fight. When the shouting diminished somewhat and the band of drunks picked up their wounded and retreated somewhat, throwing only abuse as they went, she let out a small sigh of relief. That could have gone worse.

"OK," Myles shrugged. " _Now_ we can go. Before they call for reinforcements."

"I thought you didn't mind _'putting a few drunks in their place_ '?" she repeated sarcastically.

"I don't," he told her. "But I like this suit. Would be a waste to wreck it over a band of imbeciles."

They set off again, Theresa looking over her shoulder enough times that Myles, with only the barest hint of awkward hesitation, held out an open hand in her direction.

"Here," he said, nudging her arm gently. "Clearly I'm far too impulsive to be left unattended after all."

She took it, with only the barest hint of reluctant gratefulness and they had almost reached the nearest lamppost before her anxiety spiked again.

 _"Oi – is that 'Resa Brady?"_

 _"Told you it was!"_

"Fuck," she muttered under her breath.

 _"'Resa! Oi - 'Resa!"_

"Someone you know?" Myles said, lightly, glancing over his shoulder to assess the next threat.

"Obviously," she snapped.

 _"Who's that ape she's with? Oi! Oi!"_

"If he shouts _'oi'_ once more, I'll give him something to _'oi'_ about…" Myles muttered darkly. "Better hope he listens to his bird better than I listen to you..."

"What? What bird?"

"The bloke shouting you. He's with some blonde girl."

"With some...?" Theresa turned to look and Myles had the feeling their roles were about to be reversed in terms of agitator and placator.

Theresa stopped dead and he jerked to a halt with her.

"Oh I see," she seethed, seeing a slightly younger woman than themselves tugging on the _'Oi'_ man's arm fruitlessly. He waved her away and she began shouting at him, hands flying around angrily.

 _Ideal exit point,_ Myles thought to himself.

"Come on. Let's leave those two to their business."

"Yes well, maybe you'd be less likely to say that if you..."

There was a loud crack as the blonde slapped her date and stormed back inside the pub. Unperturbed, the man immediately turned his attention back to Theresa, sliding his hands along the top of the railings as he drunkenly looked for the gap in them.

"Theresa, darlin'," he crooned across the road. "Why don't you kick that guy to the curb and come out with us, eh? We'd have a good night!"

"What's wrong?" she shouted back and Myles took a step after her as she threw her hands up in anger and started back along the route that had just came. "Changed your mind about who _you_ 'kicked to the curb'?"

"Ah come on, don't be like that..."

 _Ah,_ thought Myles. _This is starting to make more sense._

"'Resa, come on. He's not worth your time," he said gently, but she ignored him.

"Be like what?" she spat at the other man. "Rather I came over there and slapped you as well, eh?"

His mates jeered at that and the man reddened around the ears, but laughed it off.

"Ah she's nothing, don't worry baby. Just like that feller you're with there."

"Oh is that so? You know what? Fuck off - and fuck you!"

"Ah come on babe..."

"I am not your 'babe'!"

Myles decided enough was enough. Placing one hand placatingly on her shoulder, he spoke to the man much more calmly than he had spoken to the rest of his cronies before.

"Look," he said. "Just drop it. She doesn't want to come with you. Call her tomorrow and apologise if she's that important to you."

The response was immediate - and not exactly positive. The man who had stood Theresa up seemed to inflate with anger.

"And who asked you, tiny?"

 _Hmm,_ Myles thought. _Could be alcohol lending him bravado, could be this distance is messing with his perception that I have about a foot and 30kg of muscle over this guy and calling me whatever he wants isn't going to change that..._

"Let me handle it," Theresa snapped at him and Myles nodded, raising his hands

"Fair enough, fair enough."

This was her business, after all. He was just there to provide muscle should she need to emphasise her point.

"Ha! See, that's it - you listen to the woman. Ya no-balled, baldy motherfucker," jeered the would be 'date'. "Come on, 'Resa. Leave dickless there and I'll show you what a _real_ man is made of."

Despite his initial intentions of staying out of it, Myles couldn't help himself.

"If you believe obeying the wishes of a woman makes you less worthy as a man, I think it's _you_ that needs to be shown 'what a real man is made of'."

"Oh you wanna see that, do ya?" the unpleasant human being said, posturing once again, bouncing up and down with his hands on the railings, leaning forward over them - Myles hoped he was drunk enough to misjudge it and fall over the top and into the gutter in a minute. "'Cause you're about to feckin' see if you don't stop asking for it."

"I'll ask for nothing. Except that you stop bothering us."

"Us - us? There is no 'us', fucker. 'Resa's my girl, we just had a misunderstanding, right, darlin'? Easy choice - tell him to jog on and I won't say no more about it."

"You're embarrassing yourself," The Major told him, bluntly. "Go home."

"Go home - I'll fucking show you who needs to go home!" the man seethed, spotting the gap in the barrier and making for it at speed. "Come over here and say that!

 _Into the circle of your buddies who are going to be far more cautious and calculated this time around?_ Myles thought. _I don't think so._

"'Resa get away from that goon - I'm gonna smash his baldy head in!" the man threatened. "You're not seriously thinking of staying with that reject?"

"Right, that's it," she muttered under her breath.

"What?" Myles said, eyeing up his latest opponent, who seemed torn between striding over towards them and bouncing along the row of his friends.

"I'm going to ask you to do me a favour," she said, turning to face him.

"Alright…" he said warily, a soft frown etching onto his face as he read her features under the streetlight.

"You're not going to like it," she said, glancing over her shoulder at the man who had now seemed to make the decision to come to them, shouting and posturing as he advanced.

"That's not likely to stop me," he snorted. "Although if it's 'let this guy get away with thinking he can keep yelling after you like that', I might take issue…"

 _"G'won Bully – belt him!"_ someone from the crowd cheered.

 _"Waaay boys, this'll be worth a watch!"_

 _"Come ooon!"_

A lonely taxi bought them a second or two, honking its horn at those still laying about in the road consoling themselves.

"Not that," Theresa said, biting her lip.

The crowd of men started a whooping chant and she looked over her shoulder again.

"Look, I was kidding about the suit," Myles said, letting go of her hand in readiness for the upcoming confrontation as the man charged towards them very much like his supposed nickname. "Let me deal with this charming feller and…"

 _"We've got your back!"_

 _"Yer outnumbered, big-foot!"_

 _'Baldy', 'big-foot' - it's never anything original,_ Myles thought, eyeing the fast approaching 'Bully' and picking holes in his defences before he even made it twenty feet. _Should be fairly easy to dispatch him, but since the others have probably had time to find a weapon by now and I've got Theresa to think about, might be worth drawing a handgun to put the wind up them. No need to kneecap anyone unless absolutely necessary, but…_

"I need you to kiss me."

"Wh..what?"

Well _that_ was like wrenching the handbrake on at 70mph.

Had he just stammered?

 _Yep_. Yes, he definitely had. _Great_.

"You think you're some kind of hardman, big guy?" the charging man shouted, closer now, ducking one hand down towards the ground and pulling something shiny from an ankle-holster. _Probably not his deodorant can._ "'Cause hardmen get hard _wear_ , you know!"

Clearly the narrowing of the distance between them had alerted the idiot to the fact he may just have bitten off more than he could chew without a weapon to hand.

 _Knife. Knife and terrible linguistic pun skills,_ the part of his brain still functioning as a bodyguard, identified. Not a big one, but any blade could be dangerous in the right hands and he didn't have the luxury of assuming this man's experience. _Kiss her? Why? What would that h... Argh. No. Focus, man! Focus! Go for your gun and scare him off before you have to do anyth…_

"It'll probably stop him," Theresa pulled him by the elbows until he had no choice but to face her.

 _'No choice'? You weigh twice as much as her at least…_

 _Knife. Gun. Focus on the threat._

"I don't mind, honestly I can just..." he offered, stalling and pulling his arm away just enough to slip it into his jacket for his handgun. She pulled it back gently.

"Just trust me, Myles," she said, reaching up grabbing him by the back of the collar. "If this doesn't work, then you're going to need to do whatever you were thinking of anyway."

 _Yes, but have valuable seconds less in which to do it i…_

"Trust me," she said again. "Please?"

He just about managed a mumbled; _'Oh for feck's sa…',_ before her lips were on his – a feat she could not achieve unless he ducked his head, his protesting side kindly ignored the physical evidence of.

There were several seconds of stunned silence.

Then jeering from the drunkards – and even a wolf-whistle – filled the cold street.

She broke away.

"That an obvious enough choice enough for you?" she fired at the knife-wielder.

Myles judged his reaction. Adrenalin was coursing through his system and it was taking all of his training to stay focused on so many things at once.

"That do?" he asked, scowling, trying to measure where the other man had got to.

Not far, as luck would have it.

He had stopped, a strange look The Major couldn't quite read on his face. Somewhere between outrage and jealousy, definitely. And regret? Maybe.

But he _had_ stopped advancing.

He had _definitely_ come to an abrupt halt.

"Like you mean it," she said, pulling him back down.

And so he did. The shouting petered out and clearly someone with perhaps a little less drink in their belly or a little more sense in their head, had managed to get hold of this 'Bully' fellow that had been making his way towards them under quite some steam and began dragging him back to the relative safety of the other side of the road.

 _"Put your knife away, Bully. Give it up – you said choose, she just threw it back in your face._

 _"Yeah - come on man. You don't want the used bitch and her baggage anyway."_

Myles almost broke off to correct the men on the name they had given his nephew and the insult they'd laid on his friend, but Theresa pulled him deeper into the kiss, refusing to let him go. They were far enough away that he couldn't really make out the man's face – and unless he was an Olympic sprinter, there would be plenty of time to defend against another attack, but still Myles didn't dare take his eyes of the threat. Which of course meant it was rather awkward sort of encounter, but it had the desired effect all the same.

"Well fuck you then, Brady, you slag!"

Well the "'Resa" nickname had been dropped pretty quickly, The Major noted. And for a moment he had to admit that Theresa's plan had at least meant he wasn't heading back to the manor to check when he last had a tetanus jab...

Theresa pulled back, not turning around to face them at all, instead staring up at his familiar face.

"Is he going?"

"Yep. Looks _pretty_ pissed off too," Myles said, eyeballing his retreating back.

The men backed off; noisily but fairly swiftly. The display of affection had been enough to disgust them, the display of fighting prowess enough to deter them. There would be another time, they reasoned. For now, the next bar was calling. None bar one of them had any personal issue with the pair anyway.

"Which I take it was your plan?" he continued, taking note of which direction they had headed in.

"Yeah," she admitted. "Piss him off, distract you from killing him. Dual-purpose approach."

Credit where it was due; he couldn't exactly say it hadn't worked.

"You use that trick on Beckett before now?"

"Not really. He'd have been across the road telling me to pick a safe spot to watch before causing a massive scene and giving me work to do patching him back up in the process."

Myles grunted. That sounded just like his brother, alright.

"That wasn't for your sake anyway. That was for _him_ ," - she said the pronoun in disgust. "He said 'choose' and I think that showed him."

"Something like that," Myles hummed, watching the last of the group disappear around the next corner. "That _was_ your no-show, right?"

"Right. The prick."

Myles recognised his own words coming from her mouth and wondered if that was a good thing or not.

"Well, I honestly don't know what you expected to come of that, but ten out of ten for avoiding him getting his face smashed in."

"Yeah," she said, looking down. "But I am sorry for using you like that. I didn't intend to get you wrapped up in anything when I asked you to come to the restaurant, I just..."

"Hey, hey - stop it. I know. And besides that, _you_ know that 'using' me for any purpose is never going to be an issue," he told her, honestly.

"Still…" she said, guiltily. "It's not fair on you."

 _'Fairness'_ was not something he had considered in terms of whether an action was morally sanctionable on his part for quite some time. He wanted to tell her, but without it coming across as yet another case of a typical 'Butler' response of _'I don't give a shit, I don't have emotions'_ , he didn't know how.

"Besides," he said with a shrug. "It's not exactly the worst thing I've ever been asked to do."

"Guess not," she said, still guiltily.

"And the fact that I would have just ignored you and decked the guy if I didn't trust you."

She smiled down at her feet.

"Thanks. You know... I really mean it."

"What for?" he asked, suddenly aware of the fact they were still almost close enough to touch.

"For... trusting me."

"Oh, right. Well, you're welcome," he said, uncertainly.

"And for... for just being you."

He didn't know why he let her pull him back down to her again. It would have been easy to stop her. They were alone in the street now. There was no reason to. But then again, there was equally no reason _not_ to.

Myles gently straightened up and she buried her head into his jacket for a moment, revelling in the fact that he was unhurt, unbothered and most importantly, _here_.

"It's OK, they won't be back."

"I know… I just…" she took his hand once more and looked away.

Myles didn't ask her to complete the sentence; he was too busy trying to quash the warm glow in his chest. The way her head felt heavy against his chest, the way her hands gripped his like he was something she could trust and rely on, the way her eyes reflected the lamp-light as she looked up on him…

 _Stop it, soldier._

He exhaled loudly in the cold air, breath fogging before him.

"Come on," he said, mentally linking side-roads and plotting a route back to their transport. "Let's get home."

They had barely made it thirty metres before he could take her wincing hops no more.

He gave a disgruntled sigh and pulled her close by the elbow.

"What are you doing?" she yelped, swinging her legs as he hooked her under the armpit and raised her up.

"Giving you a lift," he grunted.

"Well get _off!_ " she snapped.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, immovably. "There's probably another half a kilometre to go yet and you are _not_ walking it in bare feet on frosty concrete. You didn't have a problem with using me to avoid someone else's bodily harm, now let me help you avoid your own."

She struggled momentarily but resistance was futile against not only his strength, but the weight of his good intentions; she eventually consented to some sort of piggy-back.

"This would be funnier if we were both drunk," she said, gripping onto his shoulder with one hand.

He grunted noncommittally.

"If we were both _that_ drunk _you_ would be the one carrying _me_."

She laughed. "Now _that_ would be a sight."

After some quiet trudging, her removed shoes bouncing lightly off his chest every second step, she began to like the steady movement. It was almost like riding a horse, he was so broad, carrying her effortlessly towards their destination. It was certainly warmer than walking in bare feet.

"Jaysus, Mylo, how far is it?" she asked, when they had passed several side-roads she had thought looked promising.

"I told you – just under a K," he said. "Probably."

"Probably?"

"Well I would have an accurate distance for you, but _someone_ wanted to see a Christmas tree," he drawled, accusingly.

"And another _someone_ brought us over this way anyway before I saw the tree - I swear we've doubled back on ourselves by now!" she said, turning her head left and right from her higher vantage point. "How the hell did you get to the restaurant so quickly earlier?"

"Well," he admitted. "There is a quicker way, but in case we were being tailed I brought us back by a longer rou…"

She clouted him around the ear. "You're an arse, Myles Butler, you know that?"

"Despite your meddling turning the whole thing into a disaster," he told her. "It was a necessary precaution…"

"Oh stop mumbling on about security threats! I'll _necessary precaution_ you in a minute!" she laughed, digging a cold hand into his neck.

He bucked and threatened to tip her into the gutter, his rough, growling chuckles mixing with her lighter ones and echoing into the night as they made their way through the empty streets to the silently waiting Bentley.

* * *

 **Argh ok... How was it? I'm as awkwardly awaiting comment on this chapter as Myles is about his kissing abilities.**

 **Not my usual stuff. If it was terrible please let me know haha I know it was a lot of dialogue back and forth, but I'm hoping it helped shed a bit more light on their relationship (*cough* Myles would like me to point out that by that I meant _interactions as two separate people_ and not that they are a couple *cough*)**

 **QotC - Who ships Myles/Theresa and who absolutely doesn't?**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**

 **06/12/17**


	5. Chapter 4 - Prosperity

**Thanks to: ghost235 and Steinbock for the reviews. You epic people you. And I know I said this fic is kinda dedicated to both of you on the virtue that without your motivation, it never would have left my head, but the rest of you are very welcome to read it. And enjoy it, hopefully... And, yanno... maybe say what you think of it... Please? Just if you get chance... :)**

 **DISCLAIMER: Colfer barely got away with writing Artemis Fowl's unofficial biography... Wish me luck writing Butler's haha**

 **WARNINGS: Probably language. That's a standing one. And Major gruff!fluff. Also much shorter chapter.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

 **Prosperity**

 _ **Definition: 1) Wealth**_

 _ **2) Comfort**_

 _ **3) Security**_

* * *

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin**

He took her home to Fowl Manor.

It didn't make sense to drop her off at that dingy flat of hers.

"One less night to catch a bronchiole infection from mould spores." – he'd pointed out and she had swatted at him, protesting that he'd never so much as been into the main building, so how he could _possibly_ know there was mould in there was beyond her. He'd grumbled that he just knew by the age and state of the outside – and the fact she had basically just admitted it to him in her response, but relented long enough to drop her off in the carpark for her to run upstairs and get a change of clothes. She fetched some things for Dom, too - although in reality he already had enough at the manor to last a week. It'd be a nice surprise for the boy to spend the weekend at his favourite place. Myles could drop them back on Sunday evening.

The drive took less time than it felt when she drove herself and she spent it pressing most of the buttons in the Bentley's interior curiously... and some of The Major's, too – _"Stop messing up the settings!" –_ as they made their way along the winding country roads. He had to get out of the car to open the main gates to the driveway and she slid across into the driver's seat. When he noticed, he scowled.

"Out."

"Come on Mylo," she grinned. "You literally _just_ said you trusted me."

"Generally, yes. With my life? Probably. With the car? No."

Theresa gave an exaggerated gasp and pretended to be hurt.

"I trust you with _my_ baby," she said. "And he's irreplaceable. Trust me with yours."

"That's not… They aren't comparable!" he objected. "The car doesn't even belong to me!"

She pouted.

"Fine," he groused. "Roll her through. But _only_ far enough for me to close the gates. And do not even _think_ about driving up to the manor without me…"

Theresa grinned, testing the clutch. The big car purred almost happily and Myles rolled his eyes – both of his girls ganging up against him, it would seem. He stepped back as they dutifully crept through the gateway onto the gravel. That was as far as he let her go, though. Gates closed – and they really needed to have a serious look into getting some of those new-fangled automatic ones – he shooed her back onto the passenger side with a quiet grumble about not drinking and driving.

By the time he had tucked The Bentley into the garage and they had entered through the side door, the manor was quiet and still within.

"Will Pa be up?" Theresa whispered.

"Maybe, maybe not," he answered, opening a small box she had taken to be another key store like the one he had hooked the Bentley keys inside of. Instead there was a little lever, which Myles thumbed purposefully.

He held it down twice, for a second each time. Then waited, then held it down again, then tapped it three times in quick succession.

"MB?" she queried.

"Sends a message to my father's room. Let's him know it's me coming through the door and not an intruder."

"Handy."

"Uh-huh," he said, seeming mildly impressed. "I didn't know you could translate the Morse code."

"Don't look so surprised," she said. "I did live with your brother for long enough that he managed to teach me a few things."

"Oh yes? Like what? How to annoy the living daylights out of me?" he asked.

She couldn't see from behind him, but he smirked as he said it, fond memories flitting into his mind's eye like birds on the wing.

It didn't have the same effect on her.

"Well considering how he never mentioned you existed, you'll just have to take it that I extrapolated the data," she said, a little coldly.

"Extrapolated?" he intoned. "Jeeze, 'Resa. Artemis isn't back until tomorrow, you know? I was rather hoping to leave the thesaurus on the shelf until then."

"Five syllable words aren't out of my league just because I wasn't raised with a silver spoon in my gob," she said bluntly.

"Ah shut it," he said, turning and pushing her lightly. "You know I was only bitching because I've been landed with the only pre-teen who can spout and encyclopaedia at a moment's notice. I'm a soldier. If it isn't an engine manual I'm not that interested."

It didn't seem to lighten the mood, so he stopped trying on that front.

"I'm sure there's other kids just as smart as Artemis."

"Well, no doubt. But some days I reckon he must be my penance for all the bad karma I've built up over the years."

"Doubt it, considering you spend half your life running after my sorry arse and raising your brother's kid like you have some sort of duty to do it."

He turned his back on her again and rolled his eyes out of her sight, leading the way up the main staircase. On further contemplation, it was _no wonder_ she and his brother had got along so well. They could wallow in their pit of miserableness together quite happily, he betted.

"You know that's not why I…" he struggled form his protest into words, but tried anyway. "I don't _raise_ him. I just… I'm his uncle. It's not about _duty_. I… We're blood; that's important. It's not just some loyalty to Beckett that I want to make sure Dom grows up a credit to him. And he'd never forgive me if I didn't step in and help the pair of you when I can. And besides all that, I ... you know, I'm rather fond of the lad."

"You ever tell him that?" Theresa said swiftly.

"What do you mean; _tell_ him?"

"Have you ever actually said the words; 'I love you, Dom'?"

Myles almost missed a step turning to look at her again, this time incredulously.

"Why would... What difference would that make? I don't think he needs to hear it. He knows."

"Sure. A child knows his emotionally constipated uncle _loves_ him."

"He knows," Myles repeated stubbornly. "I could tell him the second he wakes up tomorrow if it makes you feel any better, but it'd make no difference. It doesn't matter how many times someone spits the words at you, it's showing it that counts."

"And what exactly classes as showing love in your books?" she questioned, critically.

"Ha - you of all people should know that," he snorted.

Theresa didn't say anything and he turned to check she was even still behind him.

"What?" he said, shortly. "You want me to tell you too? Is that it?"

"No."

 _You are the most frustrating..._

He had a choice now. Either he maintained a sullen silence or he tried to flip the mood around.

He took a breath. Who knew at nigh on seven feet tall, being the 'bigger person' could still be so hard?

"Oh good," he said, making a great show of wiping his forehead in mock-relief. "Because you know the only downfall to these CCTV cameras being able to record onto VCR now is that they keep the tapes on record. And I don't want someone clipping my voice and bandying it about. Definitely no good for a hardman's image. Except maybe if you're an Italian mobster."

He walked on up the stairs, her following behind once more.

"Speaking of cameras, I'm glad that rom-com style make-out won't make it off the cutting room floor. Pretty sure I've seen 'kissing on a street corner to annoy another guy off' in a movie before now…"

Still nothing. He thought that would have least got a bite. A comment on his movie preferences, maybe.

They reached the top of the stairs in moody silence.

"You know _Some Like It Hot_ is my favourite film, right?"

Not even a chuckle.

 _Abort mission, soldier._

He was never one for throwing in the towel, but there was not one person on the planet who could get on the last of his carefully guarded nerves the way Theresa Brady could.

"Alright, alright, enough. I give in. I'm busting a gut here. I actually left the manor grounds, ate crap food for you and snogged you under a streetlight to piss off your non-date; the least you could do is smile, right?"

She didn't answer and when he turned to see what was keeping her snarky retorts absent for once, his heart sank.

"Sorry," she sniffed, wiping the heel of her hand across one eye. "I just…"

He sighed; his annoyance evaporating in an instant.

"It's okay. Come here, give me that."

He took the duffle-bag she'd point-blank refused to let him carry from the car for her and rested one hand on her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting sort of gesture.

"It's just… I mean… what Penelope said… and Christmas and… and _Beckett_ …" she said over hitched breaths. "I just miss... I just want... _need_..."

And there it was; his brother. Underneath everything, it was always about his brother. Always.

He pulled her ever-so-slightly closer as they began to walk along the landing, him hushing her quietly, her stifling her sobs.

"Sorry," she sniffled again, pulling away and looking up the corridor towards the guest room she usually used when she stayed at the manor. "Here, I'll take that and sort myself out. Thanks, Mylo. I'm sorry I'm shit company just now. God, I must look a state..."

She looked in a _pitiful_ state, if any, he thought. Standing there with her make-up all smudged and her eyes shining bright. Her whole body-language screamed grief; from her hunched shoulders to her gnawed lips…

He let out another sigh.

 _What are you doing, Myles?_

"Don't be daft," he said, reaching out and lifting her chin with one knuckle. "Although to be honest you do look a little like an Asian ursine."

She frowned and wiped her eyes carefully. "You could just say panda..."

"Practising for Artemis tomorrow," he shrugged, ducking slightly to catch her gaze. "You OK?"

She said yes, but her eyes spoke the truth and he knew in that moment he couldn't just leave her there.

"Come on," he said, jerking his head in gesture. "Come talk it out for a bit. _Then_ you can go cry in your room on your own, eh?"

She sniffed. "You got a TV in there so we can watch Marylin?"

 _Ha – she was listening, then._

"No, but I can recite the whole film word for word if you like?"

"You're not joking?" she half-asked.

"Nope," he said, crossing his heart with the little finger of his right hand. "Honest. But if you tell anyone, I'll have to kill them."

"Not me?"

"'Course not," he scoffed. "I haven't got enough friends to start killing any off."

She gave a watery chuckle as he opened the door to his room.

He slung her bag of clothes onto a chair which already had his training gear hung on the back and crossed the room to the bed.

"It hasn't changed," she mused, looking around. The bed, the chest at the end of it, the heavy curtains blacking out the glow of the moon in the clear night's sky outside.

"Why would I change it?" he asked, almost defensively. "Everything's where it needs to be and…"

"It wasn't a criticism," she smiled sadly. "Beck was the same."

"I know," he said, flicking on his bedside lamp and casting them both into warm, yellow light. "Nature or nurture, take your pick; we both turned out the same."

"Not exactly."

"Well, yes, OK. Maybe not _exactly_..." he concurred. "But I usually think that's probably a good thing…"

He loomed in the shadows, huge and threatening – but not to her. To her, he was the epitome of safety.

 _Him, his father, this manor… Beckett…_

And then suddenly she was crying properly – _bawling_ ; great, ugly, sobs of anguish.

 _Oh for feck's sake… How do I...? What do I...? Argh..._

Not knowing what else to do, he took hold of her shaking shoulders and brought her close to his chest. She felt far too delicate and fragile as she pressed her face to the solid warmth of his offered comfort.

 _That would be another shirt ruined,_ he mused.

For some reason, he didn't seem to mind. She cried on, wailing something about Domovoi not having a father, something about being lonely, a lot of cursing the day she met Beckett, the day she met _him_ , Myles… He listened, but said nothing, hushing her soothingly, stroking her hair, smoothing her back, anything to stop her from falling apart in his arms. Right then, if she had asked him for the world, he'd have promised it to her without a second's thought. He didn't really know how it happened, but by the time she finished crying, he had sat them both down on the bed and she was nestled under his arm like some bedraggled chick under the wing of a great bird.

"I'm sorry, Mylo," she hiccupped. "I didn't mean to do that to you."

He shook his head and chuckled; a low, growling noise of sympathetic humour.

"Well, who else have you got to cry on? Nobody else has a shoulder big enough for all those tears."

"Well thank-you, you great oaf," she said, wiping her face again and straightening herself - _back on an even keel once more_. "Reminding me I'm all on my own isn't really what I need right now."

"You're not alone," he said, simply. "You'll always have me."

"Promise?" she asked, looking up at him.

"For as long as I live," he said solemnly. "One way or another."

She gave a sniffed chuckle and thudded her head onto his solid pectoral, feeling his heart thudding strongly under his ribs.

"You're so theatrical for a bodyguard. Must be all the rom-coms you watch…"

"I tell you _one_ little secret…" he sighed.

"You know I already worked out you're a giant softie years ago," she said, pinching his side. "At this point I'm only surprised your duvet cover isn't Disney-themed."

He grunted affrontedly and as she leant into him and pushed him gently backwards. He let her with a low groan of begrudgement, reclining until he was resting on the headboard and she against him once more.

" _'Giant softie'_ indeed," he grumbled. "I'm a certified 'hardman', I'll have you know - or so people tell me. _People_ this great big sap ably saved your arse from tonight, may I remind you."

"Don't bring him up, please. I'm trying to forget that dickhead," she mumbled.

"Just saying," he said, jostling her with one massive bicep. "I have a tattoo and _everything_ to prove how tough I am."

"I've seen _all_ your tattoos, eejit," she smirked. "Doesn't erase the fact I know you like profiteroles and Marylin Monroe movies."

"I give you my lifetime guarantee," he protested, trying to steer the conversation away from that particular, awkward subject. Not the food. Or the films. "And you call me dramatic, make fun of my film choices, my tattoos, the fact you practically force-fed me junk food…"

"Only lifetime?" she scoffed. "Cheapskate."

"Fine. Even after Artemis gets me killed on some hare-brained, money-spinner; I'll haunt you."

"I was thinking more Guardian Angel, to be honest…"

Myles snorted again - this time even more disbelievingly than before. "I'm no angel, I can tell you that much."

"You're an angel to me," she said, yawning.

"If you say so," he murmured, wondering what on Earth he had done to earn that impression from her.

She looked up suddenly and caught the soft smile on his usually granite features. He closed his eyes and pretended he hadn't noticed her looking, lolling his head back so that his throat was exposed; vulnerable. It was the highest honour someone like him could give – to leave himself completely open to a fatal blow like that. To close his eyes at the same time was the ultimate. She reached up one hand and traced his lips gently with her fingertips.

"You look less brutish when you smile."

"Thanks," he muttered, not opening his eyes.

"You should do it more often."

"Can't," he said, barely moving his mouth. "People might think I'm actually a _giant softie_."

"Oh stop it," she laughed at him. "Would that be so bad?"

"Yes, actually. It would. Now _you_ stop it," he said, gnashing his teeth at her. "That tickles. You know I don't _do_ being tickled…"

"I remember," she said, the memory painting her face with a similar smile.

She laughed to herself and he cracked open an eye.

"Not at the scene of the crime, thank-you."

"I suppose you don't do kissing, either?"

"Correct; if by that you mean 'we're not mentioning that ever again', _either_ ," he said breezily.

"I'll file it with the _Some Like It Hot_ info, shall I?"

"Yes, if that file is labelled 'things to take to the grave'."

She laughed quietly, nuzzling more comfortably against his shoulder and, just for a moment, he pressed his chin to her hair in response.

"Yep. Secrets of Myles Butler; is actually a pretty good kisser, likes soppy comedies, isn't actually bad in be…"

"You can stop talking now. I think I preferred 'moody silence'," he groaned, trying not to consider that she had just complimented him on things he very much did _not_ train for.

"You know I could go on, Mr _Certified Hardman_."

"Argh shurrup, wouldja?" he muttered, flopping a heavy hand onto her face. "Let me sleep, I need to be on form tomorrow."

She threw it back, elbowing him sharply.

"You're not _supposed_ to be sleeping, you're _supposed_ to be cheering me up."

He feigned agony and in his rolling escape, stretched one long arm to the light-switch.

"I already did that – you're laughing at my expense as per, aren't you? Consider yourself well _cheered_."

"Does that mean I can stay here for a bit?" she asked, when he didn't push her straight off the bed as the room fell into darkness with a snap.

"Well that depends," he said. "Are you comfy?"

"Completely."

"Then I ain't moving you," he rumbled.

"Pretty sure a _hardman_ would never be caught dead _snuggling_ ," she whispered.

"Really? Well funnily enough, this one couldn't give a fuck so long as the snug-ee shuts the hell up and lets him sleep."

"Good," she chuckled at his grumpiness and the safety of the knowledge that although she didn't have much - certainly not money, nor a Bentley, nor a manor - just so long as he put up with her, she would always be wealthy in a very different way. She would always have someone to rely on.

"Shh," he muttered.

Silence reigned in the room at last and as their breathing fell into sync, even he couldn't deny he slept easy that night.

* * *

 **QotC: Who wants to hear about what Myles keeps skirting around? (not you two, I _know_ you two already read it... haha)**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**


	6. Chapter 5 - Progression

**Thanks to: _ghost235, Jolinnn_ and _Steinbock_ for the reviews and to _Collaborative Lady_ for the author follow.**

 **Keep it up, you wonderful readers, you. You just made me get back out of bed and come post this because I forgot it was update day, but I didn't want to let you guys down :)**

 **DISCLAIMER: Colfer deals with Fowls, I deal with Butlers... Unfortunately doesn't mean I get to claim the big guy - or anything else you recognise from the books.**

 **WARNINGS: Language, as fecking always. Also, Pa (very minor feature but he needs a warning of his own because he's so awesome) - Oh and ft. from little!Dom and young Artemis Senior, too.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIVE**

 **Progression**

 _ **Definition: 1) from one move to another**_

 _ **2) continuation**_

 _ **3) career**_

* * *

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin**

Xandr stalked the halls with a slight wariness to his step.

He had awoken to find his youngest son's initials printed out on the paper roll that translated the tapped message from downstairs into ink. He had heard it come through last night too, of course. He hadn't needed to open his eyes to read it.

But his son was usually an early riser and yet today, he was nowhere to be seen. Theresa's usual room was empty – he had checked there first. His grandson's room had been his next port of call. The boy was unusually quiet too, curled under his blanket like a puppy in a basket. Butler let him sleep. It was not yet dawn, after all.

Which still did not explain the absence of his son…

Perhaps he and Theresa - the woman Alexandr Butler had come to love as if she was indeed his daughter-in-law - had quarrelled last night and he was blowing off some steam in the gym. _That_ would not be unlike him, at least.

His hand closed on the bronze sphere of the man's door handle all the same. He twisted slowly and carefully. It would _also_ not be unlike his son to take a pot-shot at him if startled awake. But the door swung in silently on its well-oiled hinges and perhaps the only person in the world who could sneak up on Myles Butler – bar the man's own twin brother, of course – put one foot over the threshold of the room.

The light from the hallway spilled through and he shook his head slightly with a smile. As soft as muck, that boy. Although he was moderately thankful that he'd kept his boots _on_ on this occasion, as the insinuation went. Something; the light, the movement of the air, his sixth sense, perhaps – alerted the younger Butler to his father's presence and his eyes slid open warily, hand reaching for his gun in that fast, fluid motion that was part conscious response, part muscle memory.

" _Easy_ , Myles," he murmured, raising his hands and patting the air, calmingly. "Just me, lad."

He looked somewhat irked at having been caught napping, but Theresa did not stir, so he made no movement of his own.

"If only I had a camera handy," Xandr smirked, miming the photo-taking action.

His son's scowl deepened.

"Relax," the elder Butler chuckled gruffly. "And take another hour or so. That's an order."

And so, despite the fact he did not like being ordered around – even if it was by his own father – Myles did.

* * *

 **The Entrance Hall, Fowl Manor**

Dom had been _beyond_ happy to find his mother at the breakfast table – even more so to find they were staying for the weekend. Further still when, a few hours later, Artemis Fowl had returned home for Christmas and almost immediately the pair had disappeared in a flurry of furtive conversation to what had once been the Fowl heir's playroom, but these days was becoming much more of a 'study'. The Major caught something about a perpetual motion machine involving Mrs Fowl's pet miniature donkeys and made a mental note to keep an eye on that plan as it progressed.

"They get on well, don't they?" Theresa said with a smile.

" _Too_ well," Myles grunted, taking off his jacket and giving it a sharp shake. Water droplets scattered to the floor and he hung it up in the cloakroom. "They're the bane of my life when they get their heads together on some semi-suicidal scheme or other."

When he closed the door, she was stood behind it.

"What?" he started, warily. If she was going to bring up some daft idea of sending Dom to St Bart's…

"It's nice to see. Dom doesn't have many friends at school."

"He's Junior here, remember," The Major corrected, with a grimace. "Sorry, I know he's your son but…"

"No, no – it's fine," she said, shortly. "Might as well get used to the idea that he's going to be treated like a piece of machinery…"

The Major ground his teeth slightly. He knew that Domovoi could make an _incredible_ bodyguard – quite possibly up there with the very best of the best – but at this age it all depended on his mother's approval. It was a long three years before he could start at The Academy and begin to make his own choices on the matter. Until then, it was up to her.

"How's he doing?" he asked. "At school, I mean."

Theresa raised an eyebrow. The Major rarely asked about Dom's progress at 'that damn civvy institution'. Or at least, not in comparison to how often he raved about the boy's prowess as a student here at The Manor.

"Alright, I guess. His reading and writing are average or above. He's quite good at maths. Enjoys his science."

"I didn't really mean his grades. He's a smart boy, I know he'll do well with anything he puts his mind too. He's not as complicatedly intelligent as Artemis, true. But he's a quick learner and he's got excellent instincts. You can't teach that."

"Oh, right. Well… he's an oddball, I guess. Doesn't really have many friends, like I said. He walks to school with the girl from the shop on the corner. She's the same age. But he's never really had any party invites or asked to bring anyone home for tea. I'm more likely to get a phonecall off the headmistress telling me he's been in another fight…"

Myles frowned. "I've warned him about that."

"Well perhaps you should warn him again," Theresa said, rolling her eyes. "He'll listen to you."

"He always does," he said. "Doesn't mean he'll do as he's told."

"Hmm. Well he only listens because he wants to. If he finds something boring, you may as well be talking to a brick wall!"

"Maybe I've just been lucky then," Myles shrugged.

"More like he _adores_ you. And don't give me that _'doesn't mean he'll do as he's told'_ bullshit, anything you say is law to him and you know it," Theresa sighed. "And Pa too, of course."

Myles shrugged again. "He thinks the world of you too, you know."

"I'm his mother. Of course he does _now_ ; he's seven. I give him an extra helping of baked beans at teatime and he thinks I'm the best person since the _other_ Mother Theresa."

Myles actually laughed at that one, caught himself and tried to stop the amused look from spreading across his face. He had never thought of that connection before but he made a mental note to cash it in at a later date.

"I don't think you need to worry about him in future," he assured her. "Not yet, at any rate."

She gave a huge sigh, blowing loose hair up her face.

"I just want what's best for him, Major. That's all I want."

"I know," he said simply. "Me too."

She wrapped her arms around her ribs and for a moment he wanted to hug her again. That morning when he had awoken again after his father had disturbed him, it was to find her looking up at him.

"Didn't want to move," she had explained quietly. "Didn't want to scare you."

Myles didn't say out loud that she'd scared him more by crying uncontrollably than she ever would startling him awake, but it was true. And now they were stood in the draughty hall of Fowl Manor – and he suddenly remembered he had meant to look into fitting excluders on the bottom of the exterior doors – things were different. The moment passed and she stood straight again – back to being strong and independent and all the other things he admired her for. He wondered how much truly went on behind her troubled eyes, sometimes, but he would have to be content that at least she appeared to trust him enough to tell him when it all became too much for her.

"The boys will be busy all morning," he said, with a nod towards the 'study'. "I'm going down to the gym to train."

She stood there and chewed her lip for a second before nodding.

"You're welcome to join me… You know, if you'd like."

"No it's alright I'll…"

"OK," he shrugged, rescuing her from thinking of an excuse. If she wanted to be alone, he could relate to that. She needn't waste time fobbing him off as to why. "You know where I am if you need me."

* * *

 **The Gym, Fowl Manor**

His fists flew forward at lightning speed, his breath coming his sharp hisses as he moved around the punch-bag. The door to the gym swung just as silently on its hinges as every other door in the manor, but he felt the movement of the air currents sucked away from the skin of his back. After a few more seconds he caught the bag mid-swing, pausing. He had expected to feel his father's footsteps on the sprung floor, but instead they belong to someone much lighter. Domovoi would surely have leapt onto his back by now – an ill-advised habit he was trying to break him of doing, but the boy loved nothing more than trying to tackle his uncle to the floor. _'Trying'_ , being the operative word. One day, perhaps, he would manage it. But it would not be for many a decade yet; The Major was quite determined of that.

"Could you teach me?"

The question surprised him. Not the voice in which it was aired; he had already eliminated the most likely options and narrowed down the field of possibilities to just one, not unpleasant, realisation.

"Teach you what?" he asked, letting go of the bag and turning to face her. "To fight?"

"Not exactly. More… to defend myself."

He nodded slowly. That was the right answer. Defence was a far more valuable form of knowledge than offence.

"OK," he said simply, crossing the room to one of the benches screwed to the wall.

"I _know_ you're busy," she said, tailing after him. "And I know what you're going to say; _you can't learn it all in a day, Theresa, bla, bla, bla…_ But I'm not asking for that. Beck… Beckett always tried to teach me, but I just… I always thought I'd.. I thought I'd have him there, so I only ever learnt the basics and I never practice them so basically I've probably forgotten it all."

"OK."

"I'm just asking for you to teach me something so I'm not _completely_ helpless if it comes to it that I'm one day attacked by _youths_ or drunken yobs and you're not there to growl at them until they go away."

"OK," he said again, rubbing his face with a small towel and not telling her that one of his biggest fears in life was that she would indeed find herself in that situation and he would only find out much after the fact and be, in essence, completely useless in her defence.

"Because I realised last night that I have no idea what to do."

"I'd say you got us out of it pretty well," he said, pausing mid-wipe with the towel and quirking an eyebrow at her.

She grimaced, seeming a bit embarrassed after the fact – which was a step towards her not mentioning it again, Myles thought, relieved.

"But OK, I'll teach you."

"Well, if you hadn't been there I wouldn't have been able to… Wait. _OK?_ "

"Yes; _OK_ ," he told her, for the umpteenth time. "How many times do you want me to say it? Why _wouldn't_ I want you to be safer?"

"Well you would, but… all those things I just said."

"Well I've got..." he glanced at the large clock on one wall. "... about an hour spare now and no, you can't learn 'it all' in a day. But I can teach you a few more basics to start practicing. Everyone has to start somewhere."

"You're serious?"

"Sure," he shrugged. "Now what did my brother dearest teach you?"

"Well first off – just stick your arm out so I can show you – I remember one that went like _this_ …"

She attempted something well enough that Myles recognised his brother's unique style. He snorted.

"Typical Beckett," he said, although more with fondness than with scorn. "Alright, let's start with letting me show you how to improve on that…"

She smiled and the next fifty minutes passed in a swift offloading of information, slow demonstrations, steadying corrections and gentle hits, until eventually he allowed her to try to defend herself against him. Of course had he not made allowances she would have got nowhere, but it was better than nothing.

She left herself completely open when she landed a fairly solid kick to his thigh and he cuffed her around the ear non-to-gently.

"Fuck - Myles!" she said crossly, rubbing her ear. "What was that for?"

"You dropped your guard when you kick - don't do that," he admonished. "Thumbs to brows. Reset."

She did and they went through it again, he went to grab her neck, she redirected his hands - brought hers back up this time - and kicked him in the leg. It was a glancing blow and he grabbed her foot almost lazily, flipping her onto the mat.

"Bastard!" she panted, sitting up. "What do I do to stop you doing that then?"

"Well you can stop kicking me in the thigh for a start - I said hit a vulnerable target," he said, offering her a hand to help her up. "Aim to _actually_ kick me where you mean to kick an attacker and you won't miss when you do it for real."

"But I don't want to hurt you!" she said, tucking a lose strand of hair behind her ear.

" _Hurt me,_ indeed," Myles scoffed. "If you manage to land a blow, I deserve it. Now reset. Let's go again from the start - and this time actually _try_ to kick me."

She grinned a sharp-toothed grin. "Challenge accepted."

He probably should have been expecting what happened next, but it happened all the same.

He brought his hands up as though to choke her and she redirected them, this time not resetting her guard correctly - once again...

"You've dropped your guard ag... _oof!_ "

She brought her hand to her mouth but whether out of shock or to hide the fact she was laughing, he wasn't sure.

"Oh shit are you OK?!"

"Mm-hmm," he nodded shortly, forcing his tongue between his teeth and upper lip and biting down on it. "Yep. That was a better kick."

And then she laugh at him - quite heartily too, Myles thought sulkily as he walked stiffly over to the bench and took a swig from water he wasn't really thirsty for.

"Looks like it's you that dropped your guard," she jibed and he ignored her.

"Let's finish on that," he said.

"Because you need a sit down?" she grinned, taking the water from him and drinking herself - she was indeed thirsty. It was quite an effort to battle with someone with such an advantage over you and she was flushed and warm from the effort of the moves and concentration.

"No, because it's good to finish on a high," he commented. "Next time we'll step it up a gear. I'll find you some gloves and we'll do some pad work... and maybe I'll put on a groin guard."

"But we've still got ten minutes," she said, eyeing the clock on the wall opposite the door.

"Don't worry – we'll use them," he said, extending his arms to their full, impressive wingspan and twisting his spine until it clicked nauseatingly. It was getting louder as the years went on, he tried not to notice.

"For…?" she queried. "Recovering from being kicked in the balls."

"For _stretching,"_ he told her. "And meditation."

"Really?" she raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, _really_ ," he snorted, daring her to ridicule him as he lowered himself carefully to the floor. "A healthy body cannot reach its potential if lead by an unhealthy mind."

She pulled a face, but he ignored her.

"Ko quote," he clarified. "And also that forty is the next big milestone for the pair of us and things don't spring back like they used to. Now come on. Sit down. Straight-backed."

"Pssht. _Forty_ is years away – speak for yourself about getting old," she said, settling down on the mat beside him anyway. "I hear life begins at forty."

"I call bullshit," Myles rumbled. "But what do I know? Pa can still beat my arse at many a thing."

"Really?"

"Yep. But don't tell him I admitted it."

They sat together, large halogen lights overhead reflecting in the one wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

"What do I do with my hands?" she asked, after a moment.

"Whatever you want," he said, closing his eyes. "Mat, lap, knees, thighs – wherever."

He felt a light touch land on his upper leg and he cracked one eye open. She grinned and he resolutely ignored her.

"Not _mine_ ," he huffed. "You're just supposed to be comfortable."

 _And **that's** making **me** about as uncomfortable as a kick to the groin,_ he thought.

"OK," she shrugged, removing her hand and fidgeting to find a position.

Silence reigned for a few moments.

"This is nice, actually."

"It's better if you shut up," he murmured.

She snorted a laugh.

"You know what I mean, though. Just stopping for bit though. Collecting your thoughts, sort of thing."

"Clear your mind," he instructed. "You aren't _supposed_ to be thinking."

"That's like asking Dom to slow down. Thirty seconds max before everything is whirring away again at top speed."

"Alright then," he sighed. "What are you thinking of now?"

"Right now? Well, Dom, since I just mentioned him. And his bloody nativity next week."

"You said something about that last night, didn't you?"

"Ah – caught you!" she teased. "You _do_ listen to me."

"Of course I listen," he said aloofly.

"Doesn't mean you'll do as you're told," Theresa quipped.

"I don't suppose you wonder much where the boy gets his traits from," Myles grunted. "So what's this about a nativity."

"I thought it was better if you shut up?" she mimicked.

He slid one eye open and leered at her.

"It's Monday night. Well - and Tuesday afternoon I think but the Monday night is the parents' one. He's been practicing all month. Still won't tell me what part he is, just tells me it's 'kinda important' and only practices his singing in the shower. I'm surprised you didn't hear him last night, actually."

Myles shrugged. "Probably doesn't want me to know about it."

"Oh I doubt that," she laughed softly.

"Really?"

"Well he hasn't stopped pestering me to ask you to come. Even made me book two tickets," she smiled sadly.

"You never said."

She turned to look at him. "I knew… I knew you'd only have to say no. I didn't want to ask because, well… I didn't want you to have to. I know how much it kills you choosing between work and family – even if you won't admit it."

Myles was silent for a long time. Theresa thought maybe he had gone back to meditating.

"You're right," he exhaled, eventually. "Artemis has a chess competition on Monday anyway."

She sighed, relaxing into the meditation, but her thoughts wouldn't leave her alone and she found herself opening her eyes simply to watch him be still.

He was so like her son's father, but in the light of day and with a clear mind, he was not her Beckett.

Beckett laughed to hide his flaws; his anxieties, his feelings. He was only serious when he had to be and even then seemed on the edge of control, ready to explode and damn the consequences. He was cocky and cold, rocky and rebellious… But when he was relaxed? When he relaxed and took off his mask of bravado, he was just like Myles was when he let down his walls. Myles who was rarely reckless, who kept his emotions in check; secured behind a façade of professionalism, who never let anyone see him joke around or even smile, allowed anyone to see him with his guard down - unless he trusted them beyond compare.

She wondered who Domovoi would take after most.

And then which of them she'd rather he did.

* * *

 **Artemis Fowl's Plotting-and-Scheming-Room-was-Play-Room, Fowl Manor**

"… and then we simply attached the traces to _here_ and… Are you listening to me Junior?"

"What?" the boy snapped back to attention. "Yeah, 'course I am. I always listen."

"Well?"

The boy bit his lip. "Something _about_ … me holding onto some donkeys."

" _Two_. Two donkeys, Junior. It's important because I've calculated the pulling ability in terms of weight and..."

Junior was looking out of the window again.

Artemis sighed.

It was some thirty-five seconds ago he had mentioned the donkeys and it was hard enough translating his plans to the young bodyguard-to-be when he had his full attention, let alone when he was distracted.

"OK. What is it?" he said, laying down his hand-drawn diagrams with a sharp flap. "You seem… preoccupied."

"Nowt an' owt," said the boy with a bright grin.

Artemis disliked slang when there was plenty of dictionary-entered words the boy could have used but this time he let it slide, returning to the matter at hand.

"So I propose we make a start as soon as possible. I have a chess competition this Monday afternoon, but if we work on it all day tomorrow then on Monday morning we could head down to the stables early and…"

"Ah, sorry – can't," Dom winced. "School."

"School? I thought you'd finished for Christmas. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"Well, no… My usual babysitter is sick so I had to come stay with my uncle."

"You have a babysitter?" the Fowl scoffed.

"Well yeah… duh. I'm seven," Dom frowned. "Mam doesn't even let me use the kettle."

"Oh. I suppose you are," the eleven-year-old said. "And that's preposterous. Doesn't your grandfather already allow you to fire a gun?"

"Well yeah, but not without him or my uncle helping me," he said, as though that made all the difference.

"Well," shrugged the Fowl heir. "I suppose its normal for most children to need one-to-one supervision and assistance at all times, I guess you're no different."

"Neither are you. Just normal people don't have, like, a hundred staff to watch them," Dom countered, determined not to be ridiculed.

"I don't have a _hundred_ staff just to watch me," Artemis retorted. "I don't even have a nanny anymore; only a manservant. You of all people should know that!"

"Yeah, well exactly… _You_ have my uncle," Dom mumbled. "I don't..."

 _'...don't even have a **dad** ',_ was what he was going to say, but he stopped himself. He never liked implying that his mother wasn't good enough to take the place of both parental figures. For she _was_ – he would punch straight in the face anyone that said she wasn't. But he really, _really_ enjoyed spending time with his uncle and the more he learnt about his father, the more he wished he could at least have _met_ the man…

There was a short pause where Artemis gaped and made to speak and then stopped. He gnawed on his thumbnail for a moment before restructuring his words.

"Junior?" he started. "I didn't mean to imply ownership over your uncle or make it appear as though I have a greater claim to him, I merely meant to say that he's always somewhere nearby and…"

"Forget it, Tim. It's alright," Dom said, shaking the feeling and sliding Artemis's drawing towards him across the desk, staring at it like it contained the mysteries of the universe. "I could… bunk off school anyway. I'll just say I'm sick or something."

He seemed reluctant to make the offer, which was unusual for him. Normally skipping school would be a goal, not a chore.

"You _never_ get sick," Artemis scoffed. "Your mother would know instantly you were trying to deceive her."

"Yeah, you're right," Dom grinned. "That's why you make the plans and I…"

He picked up the carefully sketched schematics and held them at a jaunty angle.

"… hold the donkeys," he said, pointing to a section. "Right? Two of?"

"Lead them, but essentially, yes," Artemis said. The Butler boy wasn't stupid, after all. Just easily distracted if he wasn't interested. "So why is your mother here?"

"I dunno. She was meant to be on a date or something. Maybe she changed her mind."

"A date? Like, with a suitor?"

"A _what_?"

Dom thought the Fowl boy often used ridiculous words when a much simpler one would do.

"A man – a… _boyfriend_ , so to speak," Artemis said awkwardly. To a boy from a very normative, if financially fortunate, man-wife-child arrangement, he found Junior's own single-parent raising (and rather financially _unfortunate,_ not that The Major and Butler hadn't tried very hard to convince Theresa to let them change that) situation downright _alien_.

"Maybe, I dunno," the boy shrugged. "Can we talk about this perp-whatever machine thing again now? I'm here all of tomorrow, so maybe we could get some of it done…"

"OK," Artemis relented. "Out of interest, what are you doing on Monday that you didn't want to skip school for?"

"I never said I didn't want to bunk off," Dom avoided.

"I'm very perceptive, Junior. Your uncle taught me that – as much as he did you. Neither of us are very good at lying to eachother, I'm sure you'll agree. Or him, come to think of it."

"Alright…"Dom side-eyed his unusual friend. "I'm… _inanadividy._ "

Artemis raised a slender eyebrow. "I'm sorry? I didn't quite catch that."

"I'm in a nativity. You know – like a play about Jesus and Christmas and stuff," he mumbled. "The school one. The first one's Monday night, but we've been practicing every afternoon since, like, Halloween."

"Oh, I see," Artemis said. "St. Bart's isn't doing one in my class this year. Must be a primary school thing. You know I actually played Joseph back in… why do you look so embarrassed, Junior?"

The sudden realisation came to him when he saw his friend squirming somewhat in his chair.

"'Cause it sort of… well _is_ , isn't it?" the young Butler admitted. "Embarrassing, I mean. Singing and acting in front of people and stuff."

"If you say so," Artemis shrugged. "It's never really bothered me. Who's your audience?"

"Oh, you know. Parents, guardians... family and stuff."

"Oh – so your mother and…" Artemis paused. "Maybe your uncle or grandfather?"

"They can't come. They're busy. But my mam is coming, yeah," Dom nodded. "So, do you want me to lead the donkeys from the side or pull them from the front?"

Artemis opened his mouth to protest the change of subject but stopped, a thought striking him suddenly. He filed it away for future plotting and continued with the task at hand.

"Monday night, you say?"

"Yeah. And Tuesday day time. Was meant to be on Tuesday night too but the piano teacher is going on holiday for Christmas. Barbados, or something."

"How nice for them," Artemis said, but Junior could tell he wasn't really listening.

"Yeah. Not for us though doing all this for the one night…"

"Quite," Artemis said. "Well, leading from the side will probably be sufficient. Ahead, if they refuse to move, I suppose may be more effective. I must confess I don't really know much about donkeys…"

For some reason, that amused Junior. Artemis wasn't sure why, but it was better than him seeming quite the opposite.

* * *

 **OK, how'd you like it? And QotC - Do you like hearing from little!Dom and little!AFSenior?**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**

 **14/12/2017**


	7. Chapter 6 - Ammunition

**Thanks to: _ghost235_ \- the only person in the whole world to review that last chapter before this one came out.**

 **DISCLAIMER: Doesn't matter how many things I build from it, Colfer laid the foundations.**

 **WARNINGS: The usual. Plus some probably downright _atrocious_ explanations of gun breakdown etc. And Pa and Myles tag-team teaching their favourite little protégé, which should probably get a warning for gruff!fluff.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER SIX**

 **Ammunition**

 _ **Definition: 1) Information  
2) Arguments  
3) Considerations**_

* * *

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin _\- One year previous_**

 _"Weapon maintenance is very important, Domovoi. One day, any one of your arsenal could save your life. They could just as easily be your downfall if they haven't been properly serviced. Look after your kit and it will look after you. Understood?"_

 _Sat next to his uncle, opposite his grandfather and with the wide array of metal objects splayed out across the table in front of him, the young bodyguard-in-training nodded._

 _"Yessir," he yapped._

 _"Good boy. Now pick any of the handguns."_

 _Dom pointed at one. The Major eyed it critically. It was a Sig._

 _"OK. Pick it up."_

 _Dom ducked his head to hide his grin and hovered his hand over the pistol._

 _"Check…" Myles muttered._

 _His father shot him a glare._

 ** _Let him do it by himself._**

 _But Dom's thumb had already flicked automatically to check the safety was on._

 _"Safety on, safe to move," he recited._

 _"Good lad," said the eldest Butler in the room._

 _If Domovoi had had a tail, he would have wagged it._

 _"OK, so we're going to work on breaking down a handgun today. You already know the three main sections…"_

 _He paused to allow his nephew to leap in with the answer._

 _"Barrel… stock… erm…" he faltered, thinking._

 _"ABS," his uncle muttered._

 _"Myles..." Xandr growled._

 _"Anti-lock brake system?" the boy frowned. "No, wait – Action. Action, Barrel, Stock."_

 _His grandfather nodded, although it would appear his son was already teaching the boy about the workings of his damned vehicles. He made a note to remind him to stop overloading the kid with information all at once._

 _"Got there eventually. Ready for the next step of the breakdown?"_

 _"Like… springs and bolts everywhere?" Dom asked, cocking his head._

 _"What do you imagine is inside a gun, Little Kingdom?" he asked, his mouth twitching in amusement._

 _"Magic?" the boy shrugged._

 _His uncle barked a laugh, but the elder Butler just smiled. One day the boy would grow up and they would miss moments like this. It was very innocent and childlike to suggest such a thing and the boy had only half been being sarcastic._

 _"Any real suggestions?"_

 _"Erm… is it like an engine?" he asked._

 _"Statements, boy. Come on, now. Tell us what you think."_

 _The boy bit his lip, but he had never been ridiculed for making mistakes, only corrected to further his knowledge – it was a Butler training tactic they never wavered from._

 _"Like… there's lots of little pieces. And they all work together. Like you press the pedal and the car goes, you press the trigger and… the bullet goes."_

 _"That's about it. Slightly less complicated than your average vehicle, mind you," The Major said._

 _Alexandr raised an eyebrow. Sounded like his son had_ _ **definitely**_ _been giving their young protégé extra lessons on cars already._

 _"Ready to learn?" he asked the boy._

 _"Always," Dom grinned._

 _"Good. Hand me the gun," Butler said, holding out his hand._

 _Domovoi handed him the gun, stock first, muzzle pointing down – not at himself, anyone else, or anything he didn't want to put a hole in, just as he had been taught first with pellet guns, now he did the same with the real deal._

 _"We'll start with the basics. To clean a gun properly, you need to know all the parts, where they go and what they do."_

 _Dom nodded. So far, he had only been allowed to help while his uncle and grandfather cleaned the armoury, his comparatively smaller hands making light work of the tiny nooks and crannies their massive paws found difficult to navigate with the cleaning cloth._

 _"There are nine major components to learn," his grandfather continues. "Now I don't expect you to memorise them all today, but I want you to know them in future. Understood?"_

 _Dom nodded, listening attentively. He intended to do just that of course – learn them all in one day. He was never content with anything he considered even remotely underachieving._

 _"Grip, trigger, trigger guard – all self-explanatory, agreed?"_

 _Dom nodded again._

 _"Do you know what a magazine is? Not one of those glossy paper things Mrs Fowl reads, I mean; in terms of guns."_

 _Dom bit his lip._

 _"It's also called a 'clip' by a lot of people," Alexandr hinted._

 _The Major gave a scornful grunt. "A lot of people who don't know a lot about guns."_

 _"Quiet, you," his father grouched. "Or next time you speak the_ _ **clip**_ _will be around your ear."_

 _Dom tried not to snicker at his uncle's expense. If the giant could sulk, he would be doing._

 _"It holds the bullets?" he suggested._

 _"The proper name for them is 'cartridges'. But yes, essentially, bullets. A magazine can be fixed or – "_

 _He tossed the gun to his son, who despite looking as though he wasn't paying attention, caught it deftly and made a quick sliding motion with his hands whilst finishing his father's sentence._

 _" – detachable."_

 _Myles handed the empty magazine to his nephew and the rest of the pistol back to his father._

 _"The bore is_ _ **this**_ _part of the barrel," he said, drawing his finger along its length. "And then_ _ **this**_ _is the muzzle on this end; where the bullet comes out of."_

 _Dom nodded. He knew that one. They had taught him a few names of gun parts already._

 _"And then this end is the breech. Like the saying, 'once more unto the breach we go'."_

 _"Really? That's where that saying is from?"_

 _"No – it's a Shakespeare quote, actually," Alexandr admitted. "About an army and a hole in a wall. But for the purpose of this, if it helps you remember then yes."_

 _"As in; the cartridge goes from the magazine into the breech and then you're good to…" The Major gestured firing a gun._

 _"Go?" Dom suggested._

 _"Yep, fire; bang," his uncle confirmed._

 _"Yes, thank-you, Myles. I'm sure he understands," Xandr drawled. "So that's about it for the_ _ **outside**_ _of a gun. Then there's the cylinder – that holds the cartridges in their separate chambers. Rotates as the gun is cocked and brings the bullet in line with the barrel in the…" he paused, offering his grandson the chance to prove he had been listening and, more importantly, retaining the information._

 _"Breech," Dom filled in._

 _"Good boy," Xandr gave him a rare smile._

 _Myles thought it deserved more than a smile. The boy was brilliant. Not that he would be telling him that, of course. No need to let success go to the kid's head._

 _"The last component then. Any suggestions –_ _ **not you, Myles**_ _– as to what it may be?"_

 _"Well there's the holding bit for the bullets," Dom began, correcting himself swiftly; "Cartridges, I mean."_

 _"Which is called a…" the elder prompted._

 _"Erm… magazine," he remembered._

 _"Good – carry on."_

 _"Then there's the barrel bit for them to fire down, muzzle bit for the bullets to come out of…"_

 _Alexandr didn't say anything, his face impassive and unreadable._

 _"Trigger to fire the bullet, but…"_

 _This time Myles said nothing, but the pride that roiled off him was palpable. The clever little shit was working it out. They could see the cogs whirring as he closed his eyes slightly and imagined the inner workings of a firearm. The eldest Butler started to swiftly and expertly dismantle the gun, laying it out in the pieces he had already detailed. The magazine, the breech, the bore, the muzzle… not all were separate, of course, but as he laid out the pieces of the gun's action, the youngest noticed something._

 _"That bit – the bit that makes the bullet go! Whatever that's called," Dom said excitedly, pointing to a piece he did not yet have the name for. "You pull the trigger and that… does the magic bit that makes the bullet fire out really fast!"_

 _"It's called the hammer," Alexandr told him, nodding approvingly. "It strikes something called a firing pin – or the cartridge primer, depending on the gun – which detonates the primer, which…"_

 _"Fires the bullet. Got it," Dom grinned._

 _"_ _ **Discharges**_ _, if you want to be technical about it," his uncle corrected._

 _"So the primer is like… the bit that explodes the bullet out and makes the bang?"_

 _"An explosive which propels the bullet out of the chamber, yes," Alexandr Butler said, pleased with how the short lesson had gone. "But your mother has been stood at the door waiting for us to finish for some time now. So we'll teach you about that next time, shall we?"_

* * *

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin - _One Year Later_**

That had been over a year ago. Now, when Theresa headed to the gun room to retrieve her son, she found him once again with a disassembled gun laid out before him. This time, however, he was blindfolded. Alexandr saw her at the door once more and held a finger to his mouth silently, winking at her. The Major was there too. He had a stopwatch.

"Ready?"

Dom gave a sharp nod.

"On my mark… three, two, one…"

The click of the stopwatch was the starting pistol and Dom's hands flew forward, scouting over the pieces as he started to rebuild the weapon. Under half a minute he had a fully functioning handgun in front him. Minus cartridges, of course. He slapped his hands flat on the table.

"Twenty-eight," his uncle said, giving Alexandr an impressed nod before Dom could take his blindfold off and see him do it.

"I could do better. I fumbled the spring," the boy said, miffed.

"Do it again then," his grandfather shrugged.

Dom made to disassemble the weapon.

"Blindfolded," The Major suggested. "Dis and reassemble in under a minute. Reckon you can do it?"

Dom bit his lip. He liked a challenge, but he had never done both, back to back, with a blindfold. He nodded.

"Alright then," he said, pulling the blindfold back down.

"On my mark then," The Major said again. "Three, two, one…"

 _Click._

His hands moved quickly, disassembling the weapon a series of sliding clicks and laying it out on the table. Alexandr and Myles were pleased to see he was disciplined – and forward thinking – enough to lay them out carefully rather than ending up with a pile of jumbled parts. By the twenty second mark he had the handgun in pieces and paused only a moment to ghost his hands over the top of the table and check the position of his first pieces, before he started to reassemble it. The spring caught again and he readjusted it with steady hands. Theresa found herself willing him on as the seconds ticked down towards the minute mark. She caught herself immediately, for she was never truly comfortable with her young son handling something he would – it wasn't even really just a possibility – one day kill with. But when she had voiced her concerns to Myles, he had merely shrugged and said that it was better for him to learn how to handle one properly so that him firing a fatal shot would never be purely accidental.

Dom finished his task and set the entire gun down on the desk, flattening his hands either side. The Major clicked the stopwatch.

Although he knew better than to demand his time immediately, Dom's hands left the table to lift his blindfold. When he did, he saw his relatives were smiling.

"Fifty-three," his uncle said with a wry smirk. "Very good."

"Very good indeed," his grandfather nodded in agreement. "Fifty seconds, next time."

Dom smiled a little. Not very long ago Artemis had managed to beat him at a game of chess in just under a minute. He made a note to tell him he could take a gun apart, put it back together and shoot him faster than he could lose at chess. Despite yesterday's plans of plotting, he hadn't seen the older boy all day, for he had been holed up in his room complaining of feeling ill. Another thought struck him and he forgot about his friend for now.

"What can you do it in?" he asked. "Thirty seconds?"

"Nevermind that, boy," his grandfather chuckled. "Mind the fact you'd have had time to tie your shoelaces and still beat a minute!"

Dom grinned again and Theresa sensed an opportunity to interrupt. She pushed the door open gently and was pleasantly surprised to see her son's face light up further at the sight of her.

"Ma – I just did a field strip and reassembly in fifty-three seconds! _And_ I was blindfolded!"

He seemed so pleased with himself she didn't have the heart to listen to her misgivings.

"I know, sweetheart – I was watching! You're great at it!"

"He definitely is. What say you we try a full detailed strip down next time, eh lad?"

Dom grinned again – he had not yet been allowed to take all the innards out of a gun yet – only watch it being done and clean the pieces. He had been looking forward to earning the right.

"Can we try now?" he asked, eagerly.

But Xandr caught Theresa's eye and gave his grandson a low, growling laugh, reaching across the table to scruff his hair.

" _Patience_ , little kingdom. It can wait. You and your mother need to be getting home. I hear it's a big day for you tomorrow, am I right?"

"It's… it's just a play. It's nothing, really," the boy muttered. "I'd rather learn how to detail strip a 1911…"

His grandfather chuckled again.

"All in good time, youngblood," he said and Dom knew by the nickname he used that he was being too hot-headed and impatient. His grandfather had several for him and used them interchangeably. " _All_ in good time. Now then, are you going to tell me about this _'just a play'_ while we pack up?"

Dom still seemed a little disappointed, but his grandfather began clearing away the guns and he began to help, following into the side-room that held the gun cabinet and leaving his uncle and mother to talk alone.

"He really loves it, doesn't he?" she said, with an air of defeat in her tones.

Myles nodded. "He's very good at it, too."

"I can see that," she sighed. "And that's no surprise – you two taught him, after all. It's just… I just… I thought he might be a little older before he… I don't know. Those are _real_ guns he's handling…"

"Yes, but the younger he learns, the better," Myles repeated his usual stance on the matter. "Besides, we haven't let him shoot a live firearm on his own yet."

"Good – he's barely seven years old!" she said. "Wait – ' _on his own'_ , yet?"

"Well, we've done a bit of, you know…" The Major shrugged, looking a little like he wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

"A bit of _what_ , Myles?" she growled – and he almost winced. She honestly reminded him of his _own_ mother when she looked at him like that. And _there_ was a woman not even his father would attempt to deceive…

"Assisted shooting," he admitted. "We hold the gun with him and he aims and pulls the trigger."

"Myles," Theresa said, with quiet exasperation as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

"It's perfectly safe," he assured her, noticing her concern. "We stand behind him."

" _Myles_ ," she said again, eyes closed.

"It really helps if he can get a feel for it without the full force," Myles justified, a little hurriedly. "He's a bit young for the full recoil yet and you don't want him getting into the habit of flinching whenever he takes a shot. It's a hard one to break, so…"

"I'm not sure I want him _getting into the habit_ of firing guns, to be honest!" she interrupted before he could finish.

Myles didn't have an answer for that, so it was fortunate that at that moment Xandr and his latest acolyte returned. The man stood behind the chair he had been seated at and began to tidy away the last of the cleaning equipment from the table, replacing it neatly into a specially-designed box.

"Right, come on then, bugalugs," Theresa said to her son. "Time to go. Say g'bye to Pops."

Dom paused halfway across the room and spun back, grabbing his grandfather briefly and pressing himself to somewhere under his armpit against the man's great ribcage. He barely made it to the giant's hip when he was standing, but that would change all too soon.

"Watch the case, boy," Xandr grumbled as he jostled his arm, trying – and failing, Theresa thought – to keep an affectionate look from his eye.

 **"Poka,** Pa," Dom said into his shirt.

"Aye **, do syidaniya, vnuk,"** he returned, scruffing his grandson's hair again briefly before returning to his work.

The youngest Butler broke away and sprang to his mother's side.

"OK, ready," he piped.

" ** _Do skorogo_** , Pa," Theresa said; a phrase he had taught her long ago now.

"Indeed – don't leave it so long next time," he replied. "You know you're always welcome."

"I know," she smiled, hoping her gratefulness for that came across.

"Alright, come on. Do you want to be home before midnight or what?" Myles said, checking his watch. And then to his father; "Anything you want doing whilst I'm out?"

"Nothing essential. Let me know when you're back though – there's some blueprints I want to go through with you of _The Gaiety_ before we head there next week."

The Major grunted. Theatres were notorious _nightmares_ to guard in. So many side-doors and hidden corridors that didn't show up on original plans… Art-lovers insisted it was all part of the magic to have actors appear without notice in the auditorium. Bodyguards insisted it was all part of the next assassin's plan.

"Do you want to go say goodbye to Artemis before you go?" Theresa said, taking her son by the shoulder and squeezing him close as they left the room.

"Yeah OK, thanks," Dom beamed. Mothers were made exactly for reminding you of things you'd regret not doing later, after all. "I won't be long."

"Good; we need to be off," his uncle grumbled. "And don't disturb him if he's sleeping. You know what he's like when he's got a cold; acts like the whole damned world is ending…"

Dom leapt lithely up the stairs, rapping his knuckles briefly on the old wood before he opened Artemis's door.

Artemis, who was sat at his writing desk, jumped, pressing a hand to his chest.

"Christ, Junior! I do wish you wouldn't burst in like that."

"I didn't – I knocked first," the Butler boy shrugged. "Anyway, aren't you supposed to be in bed? I thought you were sick."

Artemis looked a little shifty and gave a forced cough. "I _am_ ill. I just got bored of reading so thought I would look over the perpetual motion machine plans."

"The wha – ? Oh, you mean the donkey thing."

"Yes," Artemis sighed. "The ' _donkey thing'_. Although I do prefer the title 'perpetual mo – '."

"Should've prob'ly mentioned earlier that I don't even know what it means," Dom interrupted, leaning on the back of his friend's chair and looking over his shoulder. He had managed to miss out on being kicked by a cantankerous miniature equine today, thanks to Artemis's sudden cold and The Major's subsequent banning of the boy from stepping foot outside the manor doors until further notice.

"Well, ' _motion'_ is obvious," Artemis explained – he almost always enjoyed explaining. "And _'perpetual'_ simply means 'constant' or 'inexhaustible'. For example, you appear to have a _perpetual_ curiosity and come to think of it, you are also constantly in motion. Maybe I should use you as a more integral part of my desi – what are you doing _now?!_ "

The Fowl flapped as the youngest Butler leant over and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead.

"Checking your temperature – me mam does it to me if I'm sick. You feel OK, though."

"Yes well… I'm _not_. I'm ill. I bloody well _know_ I'm ill because I'm _me_ ," the Fowl heir grumbled. "Shouldn't you be going by now, anyway?"

Dom rolled his eyes – a habit his elders were trying to break him of. Sometimes people were very hard to understand. Especially aristocrats.

"Yeah I only came to say bye."

"Oh. Well, goodbye Junior. And enjoy your nativity – break a leg, or whatever it is they say. Although in your case, that'd be highly inconvenient I'm sure."

"Thanks Artemis," Dom grinned. "Enjoy your chess thing."

"Ah yes, it's unfortunate about this cold I've come down with… I may be too _ill_ yet to play," Artemis said, stifling another cough. "I'll have to see…"

Dom didn't really understand that either. There was _nothing_ – bar explicit forbidding from his mother, uncle or grandfather – that would stop him from doing something he enjoyed. And even _then_ it wasn't a watertight guarantee…

"Oh. Well get well soon, then," he bid.

Artemis managed one more sniffling cough before he closed the door.

* * *

 **I apologise if all that gun explanation bit looked like bullshit to people who know more about them than me.**

 **QotC -Anyone actually enjoy hearing about Dom's training pre-Academy?**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**


	8. Chapter 7 - Festivity

**Thanks to: _ghost235, Jolinnn, Kath,_ _Steinbock (twice),_ _Fowl Fox_ and _6000j_ for the reviews. SIX of you! And seven reviews! So, so awesome. Seriously, I just have a little grin to myself when I see those email notifications coming through, so thanks for that alone. Then to hear what you think is just even better. You taking the time to review makes me feel like me taking the time to write is all worth it. I got kinda down about the chapter before last getting not much response, so to hear from loads of you this time was a real boost.**

 **Special thanks this time to my new reviewers - welcome to the club. Feel free to join it guys, I can't promise anything except that you will each get a personal response to every review from an account I can reply to. And if it helps, I _can_ promise you will make me smile. And a second thanks to _Fowl Fox_ because yes, I do indeed allow anonymous reviewers who don't have accounts because... well, why the hell not? We're all basically anonymous on here anyway haha And if people want to abuse the fact I don't have them turned off then go ahead because it's worth it for the ones who want to review but CBA logging in.**

 **DISCLAIMER: Running out of ways to say this... You know what's Colfer's and what's mine by now.**

 **WARNINGS: Also running out of ways to say this... Not so much in this chapter. Except gruff!fluff. Lots of that.**

 **SECONDARY WARNING: This is the second to last chapter. The last update will be on Christmas Eve (GMT), so if you want to make the reviewers roll-call for this fic, now is your last chance :)**

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVEN**

 **Festivity**

 **Definition: 1) Cheer  
2) Joyfulness  
3) High Spirits**

* * *

 ** _Undisclosed_ Primary School, Dublin**

Domovoi stood quietly in the background while his classmates chattered and whispered excitedly.

"OK children, settle down, _settle_."

The clamour petered out into the rustling of costumes.

"Now then, we've practised a lot of times," she took a breath - _'a lot of times'_ was quite the understatement, and she was so very, very ready for the Christmas break and a _large_ glass of wine. "So there's no need to be nervous."

One of the 'Wise Men' dropped his prop with a clang to the floor and the teacher stifled the urge to drop her head into her hands. She returned the metal teapot, briefly lamenting the fact that 'The Three Kings' looked more like advertisements for a tea-towel company than prospective visitors to the baby Jesus.

"Just… just do it as we rehearsed. Nice, _big_ voices, nice, _big_ smiles! I will lead you on and if you forget your lines, don't worry – just look for me and I will give you a clue… are you listening to me Sarah? Good. Please try _not_ to strangle your donkey as much as you did in dress rehearsal."

A few snickers went around the class and she sighed. They were as ready as they would ever be.

* * *

The lights were still up in the hall, which was packed with chattering parents, grandparents and various other relatives. Theresa checked the number on her tickets and sat down, trying not to look at the empty chair beside her. She had dutifully booked two, regardless of coming alone. But that was OK. The tickets were free and she was well-used to being a single mum. It would give her somewhere to put her bag and she could always use it to distance herself from whoever she ended up sitting next to. Which happened to be...

"Oh Theresa! _Theresa!_ "

"Oh shite. _Shite_ ," she muttered under her breath in the same, sing-song tone, and then, louder; "Penelope!"

"Oh look, we're seated together – what a _fantastic_ coincidence!"

" _Fantastic!_ " Theresa repeated, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

"Oh is your… ah… partner coming? What was his name… Mike?"

She said it almost tentatively, but Theresa was pretty sure she'd memorised all The Major's vital statistics, let alone his name.

"Yeah, that's him," she said, lying through her teeth. "But no, he couldn't make it."

"Oh I see. That's a shame. He seemed nice."

"He is. The best," she said, flatly.

"Well now you're just flattering me," an unexpected but _very_ familiar voice rumbled. "Budge up; you know I have to sit on the aisle. Poxy plastic chairs – are you sure these aren't the ones they use in the kids' classrooms?"

"Myl… Mike?" Theresa stuttered, unable to believe her eyes.

"The one, the only and..." he winked and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. "...the best, I've been told."

"But I thought…" she said, catching his comforting scent and smiling.

"Well, you know what thought did," said Myles, playing up to his character. "Thought his arse was sticking out the window so…"

"… jumped out to push it back in," Theresa finished with a bemused laugh. "What are you doing here?"

Myles shrugged. "Getting my priorities in order."

They shared a look and Theresa didn't know whether she was about to laugh or cry.

"What a _wonderful_ surprise!" Penelope interrupted. "How positively _lovely_ – why can't you ever surprise me like that, Nigel?"

Nigel looked irritated, but said nothing. Myles tried to give him an apologetic grimace, but the man ignored him and quite suddenly the lights dimmed and the grand piano in the corner started to play, an elderly gentleman dressed bizarrely in multicoloured tailcoats, crashing his arthritic fingers across the keys in some semblance of the tune of a hymn.

"I thought you said Artemis had a…" Theresa said in a hiss.

"Pulled a sicky," the bodyguard shrugged. "So I had the night off."

"You? A _night off?"_ she said, disbelievingly. "Pa sent you, didn't he? _Again_."

Myles snorted quietly. "I _am_ capable of doing something under my own discretion, you know?"

"I don't believe you," she murmured as children began filing onto the stage blocks in various costume arrays of bathrobes, tinfoil and feathers. "Too many years of taking orders. You forget what to do with yourself."

"Alright, so what if he did?" he grumbled. "I'm here, aren't I?"

He pulled a face – _that_ one, the one he reserved almost solely for her – and she shook her head at him, still unable to believe he had come after all. The old man on the piano stool readjusted himself with a flourish and started to play a new song. Myles grimaced. His eleven-year-old charge could manage better key-changes than that. With his _toes_.

A nervous-looking child with a large book hefted it onto a lectern which had been stood on the floor next to the stage, so as to make it the correct height for the youngsters. He began reading, slowly but carefully, telling the story of Mary and Joseph. When the angel Gabriel marched on, coat-hanger halo a-wobbling, a girl took over from the first narrator. She was markedly more confident and Theresa quietly pointed out that her name was 'Pasha' and she was Dom's walk-to-school buddy she'd told him about. The Major scanned the crowd discreetly and easily picked out who must have been her parents. The mother was hovering out of her seat, mouthing along with the words and the father lining a camera up to take pictures, both grinning enthusiastically. The little girl gave them an embarrassed grin and proudly belted out her lines to the back of the crowd. They seemed a nice enough family. Of course, looks could be deceiving and he decided to do a little research on them when he next got chance… But still. He didn't immediately take a disliking to them as he had with the bloody Fenway's, who's son he hadn't yet picked out.

Ten minutes later and not a glimpse of his nephew yet either, Myles sat back in his creaking, plastic chair with a sigh from his nose. Perhaps the evening would have been better spent cleaning his guns after all…

"Mylo?"

He grunted in reply and she reached over and squeezed his knee tightly for a few moments. Mary and Joseph wandered off behind a makeshift curtain – once they had found the split in it, that was – and the lighting changed, the pianist picking up some likeness of the tune _'Little Donkey'_.

"I'm glad you're here."

At that moment a third narrator took to the lectern, the angel Gabriel fell off the stage upon exit and a kid more than just a _little_ larger than the rest traipsed out into the spotlights. He was dressed all in grey, wearing on his head a large pair of ears which appeared to have been fashioned from a pair of giant socks stuffed with newspaper, and was piggy-backing The Virgin Mary with apparent ease.

Myles's lips twitched slightly in some semblance of a smile.

"Me too," he murmured, placing his hand over hers as Dom - _their_ boy, for all intents and purposes - marched up and down the stage, his classmate gripping tightly to his shoulders as the narrator exclaimed in a wavering tone that all the inns were full.

The company gave a rendition of the song 'Little Donkey', Domovoi dutifully plodding up and down the stage for the entirety of the tune.

When they had finished, the narrator read another short passage, which was ended by a loud bout of applause as the cast of the nativity lined up along the stage to begin their next scene. Dom, being a head taller than any of his age group already, used this to his advantage to scan the crowd in the direction of the loudest clapping in the hall.

The Major couldn't help but notice the way his face lit up when he saw the unmistakable shadow of his uncle alongside his mother…

 _You're going soft, Myles,_ he chastised himself.

He inclined his head to his smiling nephew in acknowledgement, then frowned as a thought struck him.

There was something _remarkably_ _familiar_ about the boy's costume.

 _Are those my socks?_ he mouthed accusingly, indicating the donkey-ears headgear.

His nephew's grin only widened and he suddenly avoided all eye-contact.

So he hadn't actually been sliding down the laundry chute again the other day at all, Myles realised. But that wasn't to say he hadn't been up to no good…

 _Resourceful little shit,_ he thought to himself and chuckled.

* * *

 **Outside _Undisclosed_** **Primary School, Dublin**

He stepped out into cold air; refreshing, after the stuffiness of the crowded hall. She saw him breathe more freely as the swarm of people began to part. Children poured out of the classroom doors, spilling onto the playground in a gaggle of excitable 'Nativity Buzz', as Theresa had called it, and gathered up into the arms of their parents and grandparents. Myles watched a sandy-haired boy, who had been the most extravagantly-dressed of the three kings, being positively _attacked_ by Penelope Fenway, his father being more reserved and merely patting his son awkwardly on the head. The bodyguard noticed how disappointed the youngster looked and was painfully reminded of Artemis and Mr Fowl. Things had gotten slightly better in recent years, but the man had still all-but-missed his son's early childhood.

"You ok, Mylo?" she asked, noticing – not that almost anyone else in the world would have done – that he seemed preoccupied.

"Yeah, I'm good," he murmured, eyes sweeping the area automatically.

"Then stop checking for snipers; it's a playground."

He snorted, no doubt about to launch into a lecture on the unpredictability of assassins and irrelevance of the purpose of an area of land when, through the milling parents, a streak of fast-moving energy cut a swathe.

"Incoming," Theresa said with a sigh, as Dom sprinted towards them, his bag banging on his back, massive grin on his face. "He's gonna jump you."

"He'd better bloody _not_ ," Myles grumbled, but she saw him tense slightly, his hands less passive by his sides as her son came hurtling towards them.

"Well he's gonna…" she warned with an amused shake of her head.

"Oh for _f_ …"

Without a word and from about three strides out, Domovoi shucked his rucksack from his shoulders and took a flying leap at his uncle. Myles sighed, but his hands shot out with almost automatic speed and he caught the boy by the arms, swinging him around to dissipate his momentum.

It was improper. Silly, even. He really should be beginning to put an end to this larking behaviour, rather than encouraging it, but the boy was already starting to show the inherent Butler trait of stoic seriousness and Myles would wager it wouldn't be so long before he didn't care for such displays of fun and affection.

" _Easy_ , tiger," he growled as Dom cackled and pulled back so that he was held only by the wrists, all-but running up his uncle's chest into an assisted backflip and landing lithely into a crouch when he was loosed to the floor at _exactly_ the right moment.

Theresa smiled. As much as Myles wouldn't admit it, it was a well-practiced move, for sure.

"You made it," the boy grinned up at his uncle, rushing forward to bury his face in his midriff.

"Course I did," The Major said gruffly and Theresa's heart sang and sank all at once when he rested one giant hand on the back of his nephew's head and squeezed him close to him. Through the lenses of her held-back tears, it was like catching a glimpse through the looking-glass. The life they could have had. If Beckett had never disappeared, that would be him stood right there with their son…

If he was still around, they'd be preparing for Christmas together as a family, now. Bickering over who's turn it was to cook, who's family they'd be visiting first, who forgot to buy wrapping paper… All the silly stuff that the majority of the crowd milling in the playground took for granted. Instead, she had this. This beautiful facsimile of something that could never truly be. It killed her to think it was the best they would ever have; the best she could ever give her son.

They broke apart quickly, Dom was not one for extended stillness, after all. He spun straight to his mother and wrapped his steadily lengthening arms around her, just as intensely.

"Hi Mama," he said.

"Hey baby," she said.

She held him too long, she knew she did, but she didn't want him to see the extra shine to her eyes. He did anyway, of course; Alexandr Butler had already begun to train him to be hyper-alert to tiny details.

"What's wrong?" he asked, beautiful concern folding his young features.

"Nothing, sweetheart. I'm just so proud of you – mammies cry when they get too proud."

"All I did was just carry a Mary across a stage, Ma. Wasn't that hard…"

" _Carry a_ _Mary_ indeed, shush you," she sniffed, ruffling his hair.

He frowned at her, confused concern fleetingly evident on his young face. And then he was off again on another tangent; his mind as quick as his body.

"Did you like the play? Were you surprised about my part?"

"Of course I liked it! And yes – I was surprised you were the donkey!" she smiled at him. "You were the _best_ donkey I've ever seen cross a stage."

He beamed. "Aw thanks, Ma!"

"You're welcome, sweetie," she said, kissing him on the top of the head. "Now come on, noble baby-Jesus's-mother steed – grab your bag and let's go."

"Where we going?" he asked, scooping his rucksack off the floor.

" _Home_ , dafty," she laughed.

"Oh, OK."

She heard the disappointment in his voice, though he tried to hide it. He was two days shy of the school Christmas holidays and now she had seen his play, he was not overly interested in doing it again.

Now came the awkward part, for she knew Myles would be keen to be off back to the manor, but if he found out that…

"Where's your car?" he rumbled - he had not seen it on the street on the way in.

Theresa pulled a face. She was already walking away from him, but it may as well have been projected onto the back of her head.

" _Theresa_..." he drawled, questioningly. "Where's your car?"

"We walked," his nephew piped up. "It broke down. _Again_."

"Dom…" his mother sighed at him for dropping her in it.

"Well, actually it didn't really even _start_..." Dom shuffled his feet slightly on the steadily-frosting tarmac. "So I'm not sure it counts as broke- _down_..."

"What's wrong with it?" Myles asked, instantly interested – and irked too, of course - he considered it one of his duties to make sure they had a fully-functioning vehicle and he could not very well keep on top of that if he wasn't informed of when it failed.

"Oh I don't know," Theresa sighed. "It didn't like the run over to the manor the other day or something. Some light or other binged on on the way home."

"What's it look like?"

"It'll probably start tomorrow, don't worry about it."

"'Probably start tomorrow' indeed," he said, incredulously. "Come on, I'll give you a lift. You can _show_ me what's wrong with it."

"Yes!" Dom beamed.

" _No_ ," his mother countered. "We're _fine_. It's like a fifteen minute walk."

"Fifteen minutes my arse," the bodyguard snorted, rather loudly.

"Myles!" she hissed. " _Children_."

He looked around as they reached the bottle-neck of the gate out onto the street. There were indeed a fair number of minors in their close vicinity, including his own nephew. He still didn't see the issue.

"Ah what about them?" Myles scoffed. "You're not telling me none of these little brats have heard the word _'arse'_ before. _He_ certainly has, haven't you, lad?"

"Aye and worse," Dom concurred. "The other day when you were sparring and you tried a spinning kick to the groin, Pa called you a…"

Myles clamped a large hand over the boy's mouth.

"A simple 'yes' would have done, Dom," his uncle sighed at him for dropping _him_ in it now.

Theresa tried to be cross, but Dom started giggling and she struggled to maintain her 'disapproving' façade.

"Please Ma, can we get a lift?" he asked, pulling his uncle's hand away. " _Please_?"

She was trying to keep the pressure _off_ The Major; he had done enough for them over the past few days as it was.

"Would I have offered?" he said, trying to allay her concerns before she even spoke them aloud.

Theresa sighed. No, he wouldn't have. Both her boys were ganging up on her, it would seem.

"Fine," she huffed. " _Fine._ But I swear to God if you've parked actually further than the damn flat is anyway…"

He laughed. "Not quite."

 _'Not quite'_ , was true indeed, for it was a mere fourteen minutes of a walk to the waiting Bentley. By the time they got there, they were all fairly warmed up from the brisk pace The Major set. Still, Theresa was eager to get in.

"Open up, what are you waiting for?" she said, irritably.

"Your son," Myles raised an eyebrow. "Seen as though he's the one with the keys."

"What?" she frowned.

"Balls," the boy muttered, dipping into his pocket and handing over his pilfered prize.

"Domovoi!"

"What? _Balls_ isn't a swearword…"

"I think she meant the pickpocketing, boy," his uncle chuckled.

"I meant both!"

"You'll have to get up earlier in the morning than that to trick me," The Major said, snapping the keys back from his nephew's outstretched hand. "Your watch snagged my hip holster on the way back, even if you did do a good job of distracting my attention on my opposite wrist."

"Thought so," Dom sighed.

"Good effort, though. Most people wouldn't have noticed," the bodyguard said, grudgingly impressed.

"Maybe that'll be because _'most people'_ don't wear guns in their waistbands, Myles," Theresa deadpanned. "And why are you wearing one to a primary school play anyway?"

He shrugged. "Well then, _'most people'_ most _certainly_ wouldn't have noticed they'd had their keys lifted. And... well, why not? You carry a handbag, I carry a handgun."

"Oh yes, because that's totally the same thing," she said, sarcastically. "Need I ask why Dom managed to get your keys anyway?"

"I... may have taught him," Myles said, nonchalantly. "And as with many things I teach the little tyke, it's backfiring."

Dom grinned.

Before she could start on the morality of teaching a seven-year-old to steal, The Major opened the car and ushered them in, taking as much car with the pair of them as he would any of his charges. Even more so than some of his previous charges.

"You two hungry?" he asked as he started the car.

"Not really," she lied. "We've got some food back home."

He made a small noise which put across what he thought about _that_ , and eyed the only other passenger of the car in the rear-view mirror; "Hungry, Dom-boy?"

"Uhh…"

His nephew had not yet learned how to deceive him and as a growing boy, the answer was almost always a solid 'yes'.

Safe in the cover of the dark in the front of the car, The Major smiled to himself, mentally adjusting his route back to their block of flats.

"Well then. Let's sort that, shall we?"

* * *

 **Admission to make - originally this fic started at the start of this chapter and ended at the point Myles realised that Dom had 'acquired' a pair of his socks for his nativity costume. Yep. Whole fic sprung from that one, relatively short scene. Well, I've got to give you some background to it first, haven't I?**

 **QotC - Are we all happy that this fic isn't really going anywhere it's just a grand exhibition of gruff!fluff?**

 **And just a reminder, I actually kept to my posting plan (shockhorror) and the next and final chapter will go up on Christmas Eve (GMT), so if you want to get on the Reviewers Roll Call at the end, now is your last chance :)**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**


	9. Chapter 8 - Restore

**So, on this Christmas Eve of the year of 2017, here is the roll call of the best readers on the entirety of FanFic***!**

 _ **Shadow914**_

 _ **ghost235**_

 _ **Steinbock**_

 _ **Kath**_

 _ **Jolinnn**_

 _ **long ago reader**_

 _ **Fowl Fox**_

 _ **6000j**_

 **Each one of you are the reason I bother to post at all.**

 **Also thanks for the faves and alerts - you people are awesome too :)**

 **Some may say it's kind of a short list, but I was expecting that. I've been away a long time and not everyone wants to read about Butler, let alone about Butler's extended family. But for those of you who do, those of you who enjoy my work and particularly those of you who take the time to tell me that you do - you're the only reason I ever posted again. You have Steinbock (as always - and Merry Christmas to you today) and ghost235 to thank for this one, without whom's efforts I wouldn't have dragged myself out of my cave, brushed this up and offered it out here.**

 **This fic has been the one which has pushed my total wordcount across all fics to over half a million words and my average to 30K+ words a fic. So that's some sort of achievement for the end of the year, I guess.**

 **It's also been... different. So thanks for sticking with it if you did!**

 *****well, the best readers on FanFic in my opinion anyway... certainly the best readers reading this fic, anyway!**

* * *

 **DISCLAIMER: This fic would not exist without Colfer publishing the Artemis Fowl books.**

 **WARNINGS: This is it. The last chapter of this fic. So yeah, I suppose you may be expecting to hear from me again in another couple of years... Catch the A/N at the end for more info on that though...**

* * *

 **CHAPTER EIGHT**

 **Restore**

 **Definition: 1) Return function to  
2) Well-being  
3) Strength**

* * *

 **Somewhere in Dublin**

Myles laughed at her when she asked him if he'd ever bought fish and chips from a genuine fish and chip shop before now, but he still wouldn't let them open the newspaper-wrapped packets in his precious vehicle – "The smell is already going to get into the upholstery as it is…"

If the security guard was surprised by the vehicle pulling into the carpark, he didn't show it. Then again, he was an ex-policeman and had probably seen more bizarre things than the juxtaposition that was the sleek form of the expensive Bentley sliding to a stop alongside Theresa's battered old banger. Still, it was an unusual sight - made only more so when an incredibly large gentleman stepped out of the driver's side of the more-expensive vehicle.

"Keys?" he said, holding out his hand. "Or as Dom filched them from you, too?"

"Not yet," the boy grinned.

Theresa tossed them high and he snatched them out of the air.

"Tell me about the warning lights," he said, unlocking the driver's door and popping the bonnet on the older car.

"Battery. It _is_ old. I was going to ask Joe - the security guard guy - for a jump start tomorrow and take it for a run."

"I know who _Joe_ is," Myles said, with his head under the bonnet. "Ex-sergeant of the Garda. Retired last year. Decorated officer after he pulled two children out of a car fire in '58. Decent-sounding sort of chap."

"It's not cool when you do that, you know?" she told him. "It's _weird_. Stop checking up on everyone we interact with."

"Why?"

"Because it's a weird hobby, that's why!"

"It's not a _hobby_..."

"You're right. Knowing the names and occupations of all our neighbours and probably knowing who and when Dom's teacher is marrying next year isn't a _hobby_ \- it's an _obsession_."

"Man named Colin. June. She's wearing flats with her dress because actually he's a half an inch shorter than her," he listed without missing a beat. "Now does it usually start alright?"

"Nope," Dom chipped in, jumping up onto the edge of neglected planter and unfolding his packet of chips.

"It does so, you little rascal," Theresa pulled a face at her son, deciding to check later if Myles had completely bullshitted that information. She doubted it. He said he was always busy, but most likely he would be a lot less 'busy' if he stopped investigating everyone they might talk to more than once a week.

"Yeah, like maybe four times a week," he said, dropping her in it yet again.

She swatted at him and he laughed as The Major tried to start the car.

"Told you it doesn't start," he smirked, cramming another handful of chips into his mouth.

"Alright, smug – you come tell me what's wrong with this then?" his uncle said, rolling up his sleeves. "Get the torch from the glovebox – and _don't_ get grease on anything!"

Dom didn't need telling, he'd already wiped his hands down his front – his mother rolled her eyes and took up his seat on the low wall, starting on the chips herself.

The young Butler darted over with the light, shining it into the gloom of the engine. The Major had already ascertained the problem, he was just using the situation to further the boy's training.

"There's a gun barrel in the glovebox too, you know?" he said, matter-of-factly.

"Of course I _know_ ," his uncle scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. And there's the rest of one in various different cubby holes around the car; remind me to show you, actually. Might come in handy one day."

"Yessir," Dom said. And he most certainly _would_ be reminding him - the very next chance he got.

"So," The Major started, turning the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Symptoms: not starting, battery warning light, radio and fans cutting out and lights dimming…"

"I didn't tell you that," Theresa said through a mouthful of deep-fried potato.

Myles raised an eyebrow, rolling up the sleeves of his 'casual' jumper. "I know, but the car did."

"Oh, so now you're a car communicator too?"

"I meant the condition of it…"

"No, no, Doctor Car Psychic – do carry on."

He huffed, but Dom was ferreting in the engine now and required direction.

"What's this?" he asked, pulling out a mangled piece of black, rubbery strap.

"That, m'boy, is the source of the problem."

"So we need... a new one?"

"Exactly."

"What is it, Uncle?"

"It's an alternator belt."

"What does it… alternate?"

The Major growled a laugh, beginning a lengthy explanation, to which Dom paid undivided attention to. He appreciated it. The boy was one of the very few who listened at all when he went 'off on one of his lectures', as Theresa would put it.

Theresa crossed her feet and watched them from her perch on the low wall. It was getting late and she was aware that Myles was neglecting his own comfort in favour of teaching his nephew.

"Here – finish your chips, Dommy," she said to her son, handing him his half-finished packet.

"I'll get them in a sec…" he tried.

"Ah-ah. _Now_ ," she said, sternly. "You too, Mylo."

They grumbled at her, but came away anyway and sat together on the wall. Myles munched his chips thoughtfully, trying to find a solution to the problem.

"You want to come inside?" she asked.

"No," he said. "I want to fix your car."

"You don't have to fix the car…"

"Yes," he said, crumpling the newspaper and getting up and heading to the Bentley. "I do."

"What are you doing _now?_ "

" _Still_ fixing your car," he said, popping the bonnet on the Bentley. "Torch please, Dom."

Dom leapt to it, shining it into the deep crevasses of metal.

" _Thought_ so," Myles hummed, heading to the back of the car and pulling a tool box from the boot. "Dom - here!"

Dom scrabbled to his side.

"There's another piece," he said, pointing out another component of the broken down gun. "You can reach it from the inside, but you have to pull the chair forward. There's another in a cubby hole under the floormat behind the passenger side. And there's a spare gun hidden in the ceiling of..."

"The drinks cabinet. Found that one."

Myles grunted as though he had expected that anyway, but made a note to keep a closer eye on what Dom got up to when he was unsupervised around the vehicles.

"Come on, I'll show you a quick trick to fix alternator belts."

"Duct tape?"

Myles snorted. "Not this time."

To Theresa's great surprise, it was the _Bentley_ he began working on. She knew better than to ask, but when he actually carefully removed a piece of the inner workings, she had to.

"Are you serious?" she exclaimed.

He didn't answer.

"Line that up with the knackered one, Dom."

The boy took it and did so.

"They're about the same size!" he reported.

"Exactly. A lot of them are standard sizes, I was hoping they'd be close enough."

"So the quick trick is... Just nick one from another vehicle?"

"Yep. Although I'd prefer it if you sabotaged someone _else's_ car in future. Preferably someone you don't want following you."

"Before or after I put a screwdriver through the sump?" Dom asked, seriously.

"Hmm," The Major contemplated. "Don't suppose it matters. Wait - before if you have time, then you don't get any split oil on your own car. If you haven't got much time, puncture the sump first because a car will run just fine without an alternator belt for a good while so long as the battery is well charged to begin with."

"OK," Dom said, banking the information.

Theresa shook her head in disbelief. "I'll just go get you a brew then, shall I?"

"Well, I wouldn't say no…"

She went, taking the rubbish with her and shaking her head in bemusement. He was actually removing a part of a car worth more than her entire flat to fix an old pile of junk with wheels.

Dom stayed, ready to hand tool and hold the light. His uncle whistled quietly through his teeth as they worked. A bad habit, but who was watching?

 _Your apprentice, actually._

 _Good point._

He stopped whistling. Now would probably be a good time to have that chat he'd been putting off.

"So," he said, nonchalantly – but cutting straight to the point, for there was no point in beating around the bush. "What's your opinion on your mother dating?"

Dom shrugged, the torchlight bobbing across the engine block.

"Dunno."

" _Dunno_ ," Myles mimicked, prompting further answer.

"Well…" Dom mumbled. "I just want her to be happy."

 _Me too, kid._

"Very noble. But what about you?"

"What _about_ me?" the boy asked in such a way Myles knew he'd have no problem adapting to the utter selflessness required for a career as a bodyguard. Almost _too_ little of a problem...

"Are you happy with the situation?"

He shrugged again.

"Pass me that spanner, please."

He manoeuvred his hand in the tight space. It'd actually be much easier if he could get Dom to do it…

"Come here – watch what I'm doing and you can put it back together again," he said, encouraging his nephew to lean in closer as he loosened the wing-nut on the alternator.

He worked quietly again for a while, but for short explanations of what he was doing, or naming of parts.

"Have you met him – the man who was supposed to meet your mam the other night?" he asked eventually.

"Who, Paul?"

 _Bingo._

He'd get the last name later. First name was plenty enough to be going on with for the time being.

"Yeah, I've met him," the boy shrugged. "He teaches classes sometimes. He's a pretty good fighter. Wins loads of competitions and stuff."

"What discipline?"

"Just cage, I think... He's got belts and stuff for it and there's loads of pictures on the walls in the corridor. He's best mates with the gym owner."

 _Quite the celebrity, it would seem._

"And how do you find him?"

"He's alright," Dom shrugged again – kid was going to have shoulders like a gorilla if he kept doing that. Not exactly undesirable, but he'd prefer it if he built them up through training, rather than silent non-answering of questions. "Bit of a big-head."

"I see," he said, pulling the conversation back to the matter at hand. "But you'd be alright if your mam started seeing someone, though?"

The boy didn't say anything.

"Dom?"

"Mhm?"

The Major pulled his arm out of the car's innards, put down his tools and sighed, turning around and leaning the back of his calves on the car's bumper. Dom mirrored him, his current height meaning he could perch more comfortably on the car than his gargantuan uncle – and without knocking the back of his head on the open bonnet.

"You know…" The Major started. "You know it wouldn't make her love you any less. If, say, well you know – someone became a part of both of your lives."

Dom suddenly seemed _incredibly_ interested in a small smudge of oil on his palm and Myles thought he'd probably listen better if he didn't keep bumbling on like and idiot.

 _Spit it out, man._

"What I'm trying to say is, your mother dating might even be a _good_ thing. Having somebody around to talk to and who can help her with the bills and so on. With things like _this_ , for example," he gestured behind them. "And you could get along with them too. They could help you and teach you things and so on. You might even like that."

Dom mumbled something.

"Say again?"

"Got you for all that, haven't we?" he muttered, just a little louder than before.

Myles clenched his jaw. This was not going the way he had planned it. Not at all.

"Well… Alright, I teach you _some_ things. But you know your mother barely accepts any help from me," he said. "I'd like to think if you had someone living with you day in day out she'd eventually allow them to assist her."

Dom shrugged yet again. "Maybe."

"So say if she finds someone – maybe even this Paul guy if he manages to make it up to her," he said, hoping not as the man had not passed his 'not a complete arsehole' test after his antics the other night. "You think you could cope with him living with you?"

There was no hesitation this time and the message came across loud and clear:

"I'd rather it was you."

It hit him harder than he thought it would to hear it said out-loud.

Myles gave a breathy growl and rubbed his temples.

"You know… You know I can't do that, right?" he said, eventually. "For… a lot of reasons."

'A lot of reasons' that the boy was well aware of, of course. As well as some he was not.

Domovoi still looked crestfallen. Almost as though this conversation had built his hopes up for something. Myles wished he hadn't started it now.

"And none of them are anything to do with…" he tried to find the words. "It's not because of... of anything I can control, you understand? It just wouldn't work out. Besides, I don't…"

The sentence could have ended with anything.

 _I don't want to be the man to replace my own brother._

 _I don't want to pretend you don't have a real father who might be out there somewhere._

 _I don't know how to make this right._

"I know," Dom almost whispered. "I just wish…"

The sentence could have ended with anything.

 _I just wish my mother would just take a job from the Fowls._

 _I just wish my father had never disappeared._

 _I just wish that somehow something good could come out of all this._

"I just wish you were my dad," he blurted out eventually instead.

It was not on the list of things Myles had been expecting to hear. Something in his chest tightened. He'd been so caught up in not wanting to take his brother's place that he hadn't ever really thought that maybe, just maybe, someone _did_ want him to. Well, in a way it had always been a consideration with Theresa, but that was different. She didn't want a replacement Beckett, he was just the closest she could get to the real thing. Nobody had ever asked _Dom_ what he wanted.

He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again; wrapped one long arm around his nephew's shoulders. Negated the gap between them with a strong squeeze. Some things didn't need to be said.

* * *

By the time Theresa came back down the several flights of stairs with the tray of tea, Dom was lying under the car making the most of his current size to help fit the Bentley's alternator belt to the ancient engine.

"Tea break, boys," she said, setting it down.

"Good timing," The Major said. "We're pretty much done here."

Domovoi scrambled out from under the car and The Major began packing his tools away in their proper places.

"Are you alright, babe?" she asked her son.

"Fine thanks, Ma," he said, brightly; grabbing his favourite mug and breathing in the steam before he took a sip, just as he always did.

Theresa frowned again. His eyes seemed a little red and raw. She supposed he might be tired. That, or he'd got some sort of engine dust in them from crawling about under the car Myles was walking around. He crouched, checking the tyres one by one – no doubt they wouldn't live up to his prestigious standards.

"You all done over there, Michelin Man?" she called.

"If that's some sort of 'fat joke' on account of all the calories I've consumed these past few days in your presence you can pack it in now or I'll leave a bolt loose on this sack of spanners you call a car," he grumbled, hauling himself up using the roof of it.

"You leave my Henry alone," she said, expecting a joke on the nickname. It didn't come. He seemed distant, as though his mind was elsewhere. He had black smudges at his temples and that, coupled with Dom's unusual stillness got her thinking that maybe they'd had that heart-to-heart she'd been asking him for.

He came over anyway, sandwiching Dom between them and taking the offered mug of tea gratefully. She tried to catch his eye over the boy's head but he just gave her a strange sort of half-smile and went back to his drink.

"So tell me then, my mini-mechanic," she said, nudging her son in the ribs with her elbow. "What was up with old Henners?"

"Well his alternator belt had snapped, so we used the one off B… the Bentley and now he should work again when we start him up because the alternator belt will make the energy from the engine going 'round and 'round go to the…" he petered off, looking for approval.

The Major gave him an encouraging nod.

"… to the battery. So that'll be charged… So then the electrics will work again and he'll start up again next time," he finished, looking pleased with himself. "So now we just need to jump start him."

"Hopefully," Theresa said wryly.

" _Hopefully_ indeed," The Major snorted. "That's some fine engineering bodge-work we've done this evening. And if it doesn't work, you can go find me some even- _more_ -fattening food to eat whilst I think of a new plan."

"Using duct-tape?" Dom asked brightly.

"Probably," The Major admitted. "That and cable ties. Now go get the leads, lad."

Dom scampered off without need for direction, clearly thrilled when The Major allowed him to carefully connect the two cars. He showed him, patiently and calmly, how to start the car – although stopped short on this occasion on allowing him to do it. After a tense wait whilst the Bentley ran quietly in the carpark, Myles turned the key on 'Henry' the banger and with a couple of turnovers, Theresa's car coughed into life.

"Urgh as much as I'm glad you fixed it," Theresa groaned. "I hate it when you're right."

"I'm _always_ right," he smirked.

"I know; smug bastard."

"Theresa – _children!_ " he imitated her earlier comment, mockingly.

" _Child_ – and he's mine, so I can do what I like with him," she said, grabbing her son by the shoulders. "Including _kiss_ him for being such a little genius! Come here, you!"

"Urgh – _gross_!" the seven-year-old complained, wriggling and giggling as she planted her lips on his cheek.

"I believe he had a little help," Myles sniffed, disconnecting the jump leads.

"Oh alright yes, thank-you too you big, smug oaf," she said, letting go of her boy. "But I don't suppose you want kissing, either?"

"Urgh – _gross!_ " he mimicked his nephew.

But he was smiling. They all were.

"Alright, Dom – you know what to do," he said, giving the boy the treat of getting to turn all the lights and dials to test them.

The young bodyguard-to-be leapt into the car and put the headlights on, the fans, the radio…

"All working, Uncle!"

"Good lad. See if they _stay_ working for a little while then you can switch them all off again," Myles said as he squinted in the sudden brightness. He unhooked the jump leads and closed the bonnet, dusting his hands together as he turned to Theresa. "Keep that running for a bit so it'll charge your battery – you'll probably need a new one, though. I can find one, if you like?"

"Thanks, Myles," Theresa said, for she was very grateful, if a little irked at his ever-arrogant attitude and extended 'charity' offers.

"Don't be daft. You know I _do_ actually enjoy getting my hands dirty sometimes."

"And your face?"

"What?" he frowned.

She laughed and he realised what she meant, wiping his forehead with his sleeve before she could go at him with a hanky or something just as ridiculous.

"Oh great..." he muttered, trying to see his reflection in the Bentley's incredibly polished windows. "Pa will have something to say about that, for sure."

"I still can't believe you cannibalised your own car," Theresa said with a shake of her head.

"Well… I can fix that easily enough. We already have spares in the garage at the manor; and she'll get me home without an alternator."

The sound of the rusty old engine filled the silence as they suddenly came to realise that this was the time for them to part once more.

"Right then," Theresa said eventually. "You're sure you won't come in for another brew?"

"Maybe another time," he said, checking his watch. "For now I best go check Artemis hasn't buried himself in all the handkerchiefs he's been using."

"Still bad with that cold, eh?"

Myles made a disbelieving noise.

"Aristocrats," he scorned.

But he was glad on this occasion of his charge's mysterious 'illness' – of which he was highly suspicious of the integrity of, it must be said – and the chances it had given him this evening.

"See you soon then?" she said, almost hopefully.

"Erm…" – and there he went again with the ridiculous pauses - _spit it out, man_ – "Pa asked me to say, actually... If you two want to come to the manor and, well – if you haven't anything planned – you're welcome to... ah...come and spend Christmas with us. You know, if you'd like that. Obviously we do have to work, but you can eat with us afterwards and… and so on," he finished, somewhat lamely.

Theresa beamed. Last year had been an utter disaster involving a visit to her own mother. The year before that the Fowls had been abroad so they hadn't even seen Xandr and Myles for two months. The year before that, she couldn't even remember what she had been doing…

"We'd love to," she said, covering her mouth with one finger and nodding towards her son as he slid out of the car door having completed his 'cockpit shutdown drill' – they called it that in readiness for his aircraft training, and also because it sounded more exciting for the boy. "I'll surprise him later."

Myles gave a small nod and smiled as the subject of their chatter slouched towards them and leant on his leg with a stifled yawn.

"You're going now, aren't you?" he said, looking down at the floor. His uncle's boots shifted slightly before he spoke. Dom thought about how he'd always liked those boots. One day he'd have a pair of his own just like them. He was looking forward to that day.

"I am," the man admitted.

"Time for him to be off and time for you to be in _bed_ , young man," said his mother. "Nativity round two tomorrow, right?"

"Can't be bothered," Dom muttered. "I'd rather just not go to school."

Theresa sighed, ruffling his hair. "Two more get-ups, kiddo."

She looked up at Myles and rolled her eyes. _See? This is what I have to deal with on a daily basis…_

He decided to step in.

"Alright, _**molodoy** _– listen up," he said, gruffly, crouching down in front of his nephew. "Don't you be letting young Miss Mary and the others down tomorrow, alright? I expect another solid performance. And if you can manage that, I'll let the sock thieving slide, sound good?"

Dom smiled despite himself, turning his head and hiding his face in his shoulder, which was enough of an admittance of guilt as if he had just come straight out and said he had pilfered them.

"Don't make me make it an order," The Major warned, gripping him by both elbows and forcing him to look at him.

"Alright…" the boy mumbled, leaning towards him heavily and thudding his head against the man's shoulder.

Myles dropped one knee to the floor for balance and let him, folding his arms so far around him they hit his own elbows this time.

Theresa blinked, saving the image in her mind and hoping she could find some medium to translate it into her artwork at some point.

Myles was murmuring something to Domovoi and when he'd finished, the boy gave a small nod and the man pushed himself up to his massive height and inclined his head to her.

"Right then, I'll be off. You want me to leave this banger running?"

"Aye, Joe will watch nobody steals off with him."

" _Him_ indeed," The Major snorted. "All vehicles are female, I'll have you know."

"Why?" she asked, tucking Dom under her wing as Myles got into the Bentley and dropped down the window so he could still talk to them. "Because it makes all you _hardmen_ more comfortable with being obsessed with them? Or because they're all beautiful in their own way?"

"More like; because they're temperamental, break down if you don't look after them and if you don't treat them right they'll leave you stuck at the side of a road," he said with a growling chuckle.

"Well I hope Bertha doesn't take you removing parts of her engine for spares too badly," she said with a laugh.

"Well if I do end this evening parked up in a layby on a country lane, I hope you and Henri- _etta_ appreciate my efforts."

"We do," Theresa smiled. "Very much."

Myles got the gist that she wasn't just talking about the alternator belt.

He gave them a lazily salute and pulled away, the barrier lifting to let him out of the carpark as he saw them waving in the rear-view mirror. He placated that strange gnawing feeling in his chest with the knowledge that it wouldn't be long before he saw them again.

 _You're going soft, Myles,_ he warned himself, not for the first time. Not even for the first time _that evening_.

"Come on then, chum," Theresa said, giving her boy's shoulders a squeeze once the red lights of the Bentley's rear had bumped over the ramp and disappeared around the corner. "Let's get inside."

She picked up the tray she had brought the drinks down on, pausing when she noticed him still looking out of the main gates.

"You OK, babe?"

"Yeah, I'm OK," he said, helping her with the mugs. "Are you sure Henry will be alright out here?"

"I'll come down and turn him – or _her_ – off later. I don't think anybody will want to steal the old thing anyway!"

"Probably not; heap of shite," he shrugged.

"Domovoi Butler!" she gasped, clipping him playfully around the ear.

"What?" he said, innocently. "Uncle said it."

" _'Uncle said it',_ indeed," she snorted. "I'll be having _words_ with that bloody uncle of yours…"

He grinned and together they made their way up the several flights of stairs to the flat, mugs clinking, teeth chattering, but together, and as happy as they could be given the circumstances.

* * *

 **EPILOGUE**

One day, when someone asked him for one of his favourite memories, he would talk about training his sister and his Academy antics. He would tell stories of daring adventures and heroic escapades, brilliant rescues and terrifying near-misses. But he wouldn't tell them that, when they had tired of his tales and he was left alone once more, his mind would wander back to a chilly December night not too long before Christmas, lying on his back in a frosty carpark fixing a hopeless car with his uncle, drinking tea made by his mother and listening to them bickering back and forth. For some things didn't need saying.

Some things didn't need saying at all.

* * *

 **OK, so that's that. I definitely did not expect it to get to nearly 40K words when I set off. In fact, a good 4K of it appeared after I wasn't happy with ending it at the moment Myles realised those donkey ears were made out of a pair of his socks.**

 **I'd apologise for it not strictly being AF Fanfic, but if you've got this far I'm willing to take a guess that it mustn't have matter to you that much.**

 **It is all snippets of Butler's life and that is what I'm working on longterm. And I mean *very* longterm. I really would like to promise you the next fic of that set very soon, but the way my life is at the moment, that's just not a possibility. On a brighter note, I know exactly where I'm going with the next two fics in the set so it's looking like it'll be a nice trilogy once it's all written up. You'll get it eventually. Just like the AF movie – that's happening now apparently. Here's hoping, anyway!**

 **As always, thank-you so much for reading and giving me support. I'm not saying I wouldn't write without it, but I certainly wouldn't bother posting it if I didn't think I had an audience. So thanks a lot for making the effort and Merry Christmas if you do celebrate it, happy holidays or whatever if not.**

 **Your ever Butler-loving author,**

 **Wolfy  
ooo  
O**

* * *

 **p.s. I didn't do a QotC for this one, so here it is...**

 **(And argh, I can't believe I'm saying this as it breaks my rules, but I'll do it anyway...)**

 **There is a... sequel, of sorts to this.**

 **It is action-y. There are bullets. And heroics. It follows on almost immediately onto the back of this one.**

 **It is more my 'usual' thing.**

 **So if there is anyone - anyone - out there who would like to read that, drop me a review or a PM if you don't fancy reviewing and I will actually pressurise myself into writing it because it is only very, very partly written and normally - hence the MASSIVE gaps between fics from me - I only ever start posting something when it 100% done and ready to read. So writing as I go would be a totally new experience for me and I cannot promise it would be my best work.**

 **But if you want it... I will try my best over the next few days to get it written. Just let me know.**

 **And if not, no worries, tarrah for now and I hope you'll be back reading again sometime not too far in the distant future :)**


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